Aftermath
by geekmama
Summary: 'I Love You' was only the beginning.
1. Benefit of the Doubt

_**~ Benefit of the Doubt ~**_

 _She's known him a very long time. Why wouldn't she give him the benefit of the doubt?_

* * *

"I love you."

And the line went dead.

Molly set her mobile on the counter and raised trembling hands to her mouth. Then, realizing there was no use in fighting it, she went into her living room, dim in the fading light of late afternoon, sat down on her sofa and wept as though her heart had been ripped to shreds.

It was long agonizing minutes before she began to think with any coherence, and her first thoughts were Why? _Why?_ _Why_ _?_

 _Why_ did beautiful things have to die?

Joanne and Matt's darling baby girl… Molly had only assisted at the post mortem, but that had been bad enough. Terrible, in fact. And the results inconclusive, as so many of those cases were. And Joanne had tried to comfort _her_ when she had failed to hold herself together when she'd given them the report.

After that, Mike had sent her home for the rest of the day... and she'd found Toby.

There should have been no comparison, but there _was_. He had been hers in a way that no other being in her life ever had.

People who claimed that animals did not really love were ignorant _fools_.

And then… on top of all that…

It was said that disaster always came in threes, and here was incontrovertible proof.

She threw herself back on the couch and stared blindly at the ceiling, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes into her hair.

 _I… love you. I love you!_

Oh, that had thrown him off, her insistence that he say it first. Maybe it had been childish… but no. _If she must suffer, so would he, by God._ The words held true.

She replayed it over and over in her head, hearing him struggle to say the words.

Well, the first time he'd certainly struggled. But the second time…

She frowned.

What on _earth_ had he been playing at with that phone call?

And why had he _called_ in the first place? _I prefer to text._ She could hear him saying that, as he had so many times, in that flat, condescending way of his, though sometimes with mischief at the back of his eyes.

He _never_ called… or rarely. If there was some emergency…

A sudden premonition rapidly expanded to a full-on shiver of fear..

To _call_ , then to ask such an unprecedented, uncharacteristic thing of her. And then to hang up immediately?

There was something wrong.

Maybe _very_ wrong, knowing Sherlock (as she _did_ ), and considering the things that had happened between all of them in the last six months.

She got up, feeling drained and old, but fear and curiosity hounding her. Went to the kitchen and snatched up her phone. Nothing, just the record of the two calls. Eighty-eight seconds of the strangest conversation she'd ever had with him (and they were _always_ strange, in one way or another).

After a second's hesitation she decided to text him.

 **Sherlock, what's going on? -MH**

She waited ten minutes for a reply, tidying her grief-ravaged self, then finishing up making the tea she'd started before being interrupted. Took slow sips of the delicious brew, trying to stay calm.

But there was no reply.

So she texted Greg.

 **Greg, do you know where Sherlock is? - MH**

Two minutes later, Greg's text alert sounded.

 **Molls! He's out of town. - GL**

 **Baker Street got blown up again but everyone's OK. - GL**

 _Oh, God!_

 **He's on the case. - GL**

 **Mrs. Hudson? - MH**

 **Gone to her sister's. Took her to the station myself. - GL**

She began another line of text, but then deleted it and phoned him instead.

"Molly?" he asked when he picked up.

"Greg, there… I think there's something wrong. Sherlock called me a bit ago and … it wasn't right."

"What wasn't right?"

"Well, he never calls when he can text, unless it's something dire. And… he sounded… not himself. Almost frightened!" She was beginning to remember the rest of the conversation, his panicky _Don't hang up!_ And his nervous, _I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends._ "Greg, where did he _go?_ "

"Well, that's just it, I don't exactly know. But Mycroft's with him, and John. Lord… But they'll be alright."

He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself, now, as well as her. Molly's heart thudded in her chest, but she managed to put a smile in her voice (just as Sherlock had… oh, _God!_ ) and said, "Yes. I'm sure you're right. The three of them… well, they'd be unstoppable."

"Yeah," said Greg, thoughtfully. "Look, when did you take his call? Can you tell me what he said."

Molly swallowed hard. "It… it was about forty minutes ago. He wanted me to say… three words. _I love you_."

"God," Greg breathed. "I mean… did he say why?"

"An experiment? But I don't think… I really don't think it was that. He was afraid, Greg, and trying to hide it. He was very insistent that I say it."

Greg was silent for a moment, then asked, " _Did_ you say it?"

"I made him say it first. But yes. And then he hung up. Or… the line went dead, at least." Molly sniffed, and rubbed at her runny nose, tears gathering again. But when Greg said nothing, she asked, in a watery chuckle, "Weird, right?"

"Molls, I'm coming over," Greg said, finally, his voice grim. "Just… well, hang tight. I'll be there in fifteen."

He arrived in ten, siren howling as he pulled up in front of her building, and she had the door open before he'd even shut it off and exited the car.

He did not smile as he strode up the walk, but his expression lightened as he reached her, and he put an arm around her and gave her a hug and a quick kiss on her forehead. "Just want a look around. Just in case."

She nodded, but did not otherwise reply, her chest tight as she fought down a sob of fear.

He walked in and scanned the living room, then asked, "Where'd you take the call?"

"Kitchen," she managed to croak. Tears slid down her cheeks again, and she said, "Sorry!" in acknowledgment of his sympathetic grimace, and turned away to grab some more tissues.

After she blew her nose and wiped her cheeks again, she stood up very straight, took a couple of deep, calming breaths, and followed him into the kitchen.

He was setting something on the counter, something small and black, cylindrical, with a short wire attached.

"What is that?" she asked, a touch of hysteria in her voice, for she already suspected.

And he confirmed it. "A camera. There's likely others." He stopped his search and said to her, "Molly, I want you to go sit outside in the car. In fact, come on." He took her by the wrist, though his grip slid down to her hand as he pulled her after him to the front door and out to his car.

Once they were inside, he got on the radio and barked some orders.

Her house was going to be swept not only for cameras, but for explosives. She covered her trembling lips with her hand again.

Then, still sitting there, he fired off some texts. "Just on the off chance, Sending one to Mycroft's PA, too. She probably knows where they went, at least."

"W-where's Rosie?" Molly croaked, suddenly terrified for her goddaughter.

"Ted and Stella's, and hopefully out of harm's way, but I'll have someone check on 'em. I'm going to have John's place swept, too. Something bad's going on, Molls."

He was starting the car when Molly remembered. "Greg! I've left my phone."

"Leave it," he snapped. "And it's likely you'll have to get another one to replace it." He looked over at her, and tried to give her a smile and a wink. "We'll get through this, eh?"

She nodded, but fear welled up inside her again, and she turned to stare blindly out the window as the car pulled away from the curb.

 **o-o-o**

She had been sitting in Sally Donovan's office at NSY headquarters for nearly four hours when Greg came rushing in, putting on his coat as he told them, "Gotta go, Sherlock's finally sent a text and we've pinpointed his location."

Molly had jumped to her feet and now demanded querulously, "He's alright?"

"Dunno! All he said was _Come now!_ Maybe didn't have time for anything else. But there's good news, Molly, they've finished sweeping yours, found three more cameras but nothing else. You should be safe enough there, though we'll have a watch on you, at least for a day or two. Sally, can you take her home? Gotta run - Mycroft's PA's sent a helicopter for us."

Sally rolled her eyes a bit, but gave a crooked smile, too, as she turned to Molly.

But Molly blurted, "Greg, can I come with you?"

"No!" he exclaimed, shocked. But then said more gently, "No, Molls, you need to let us handle it. We don't know what sort of situation we're looking at. We'll have him call you as soon- oh, bloody hell. Your mobile. They've confiscated it - suspect it's been tampered with." He turned to Sally. "Get her a mobile, I don't care how. One of ours, or take her to a shop or something."

"Shouldn't be too difficult, it's only nine," said Sally. "Be safe, Greg."

He gave her a grin, his eyes sparking with amusement.. "Right. With Sherlock involved, what could _possibly_ go wrong?"

And with that, he was out the door.

Sally turned to Molly. "Shouldn't be long now. Let's see about that phone and get you home."

More waiting, Molly thought dismally, following her out. But at least he had been able to text. That was something.

 **o-o-o**

The phone was acquired easily enough, and within the hour Molly was home and staring in dismay at the disarray caused by the sweep. She had texted both Greg and Sherlock, so now there was nothing to do but wait for events to unfold and resolve. Probably plenty of time to put her house back together.

She spent more than two hours doing so, since it was one of those projects that tended to snowball into multiple unanticipated tasks, but finally, near midnight, she was sitting down on her sofa with a hot cup of tea and the remote control of her telly, clicking through the various channels for any sign of information. There was nothing - which didn't seem surprising, considering Mycroft was involved - he'd keep things under wraps as long as he could.

A few minutes after midnight, her new mobile's text alert sounded, startling her. She snatched it up.

 **They're safe. - GL**

 **Too weird, though. - GL**

 **Sherlock will tell you. - GL**

 **John sends a hug. - GL**

She almost began to weep again, the relief was so palpable. She lay back against the cushions of the couch, just breathing and thinking, over and over, _Thank God!_

And then she thought, ' _Sherlock will tell you'? He's coming_ _here_ _?_

But no, Greg couldn't have meant….

Could he?

She hesitated for another few seconds, then leapt off the sofa and ran up the stairs. Grabbed a pretty but comfortable outfit (flowered leggings, a tunic-style jumper to match), hesitated, then grabbed the pretty new bra and pants set (astoundingly wishful thinking, but what could it hurt?), ran into the loo and gasped at her disheveled, tear-stained appearance, shut the door, and turned on the shower.

 **o-o-o**

It was well after three in the morning when he arrived.

She'd been asleep on the sofa for over an hour, having finally succumbed to exhaustion, when she was roused by a rap on her front door. She sat up, frowning, for it couldn't be Sherlock. He never knocked, either broke in or used his key.

But when she looked through the peephole (because three in the morning? Come on!) there he was, staring straight at her, complete with Belstaff and scarf.

She threw the door open and stared up at him.

He looked older, very tired. Not smiling. A hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Hello, Molly."

She could hardly believe he was standing on her front porch, after everything that had happened. She took a step toward him, raising her hand. Just wanting to touch him and make sure he was real.

And something changed in his expression, and he took his hands out of his coat pockets and hesitantly lifted his arms.

She walked into his embrace. Laid her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes with a sigh of pure relief when his arms closed tight about her, his own head bent against hers.

There was the sound of a car pulling away from the curb.

He cleared his throat. "I think John's left me here. Is that.. Alright?"

She smiled, and pushed back a little in order to look at him. "Still your favorite bolthole?" She saw that her humor had been ill-timed (as was so often the case - _Not your area, Molly_ ). She gave an uncertain smile and said, "Of course it's alright. You have to explain, don't you?"

He sighed wearily, releasing her with some reluctance. "I've a mad sister, it seems, been locked up for years, but Mycroft let her meet with Moriarty at some point and she ended up manipulating not only him but her keepers and managed to compromise my safety and that of everyone I love, as well as numerous others, often fatally so. It's over now, she's safe, and… here we are."

She stared, open-mouthed. "But-"

"I know. I know that raises more questions than it answers. I'll tell you all of it… but not now. Please? I'm sorry-"

"No, _I'm_ sorry," she said, with true contrition. "Do you need your own space? I can-"

"Can't I sleep with you? The way we used to?" And then an odd diffidence came into his face, and she could almost swear he was blushing, though it was very difficult to tell in the dim light. "Well, for now, at least."

She could not have misunderstood. Obviously had not, from his expression. She had a strong urge, to laugh and cry all at once, and to hide her emotion she took up his hand and pressed it to her lips, and then to her cheek, before clasping it warmly. "Yes, of course," she said, simply.

Then she led him inside, and closed the door.

~.~


	2. Pillow Talk

_**~ Pillow Talk ~**_

* * *

It was barely dawn when she roused briefly at some movement of his fingers, pulling slightly at the thin material over her waist. She opened sleepy eyes to find his tired ones peering into hers from across the pillow.

"Where's Toby?" he asked.

But from his tone and expression it seemed he already knew.

She said, "I'd just come back from the vets. When you called."

His expression changed so subtly that someone else might not have noticed it. "I'm sorry," he said, softly.

She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment. But that grief already seemed an old one, in a way, what with all that had happened.

"I'll get you a kitten."

Startled, her eyes blinked open.

But he went on, his voice soft and low. Thoughtful. "Or a dog. We could get a dog."

Her brows lifted.

But there was more. "I mean… you'd like a dog, too. Wouldn't you?"

She had a sudden vision of little Sherlock, six years old, begging for sweets, but the implications of his words precluded a smile. She was silent for moment before she cleared her throat slightly and replied, "I like dogs. It was Toby that didn't."

"Oh. Well, then."

"Shall we talk about it later?" she said, gently.

"Probably best," he conceded. But then he studied her face again. "Was there something else? There was, wasn't there? Your… _not good day_."

He saw so much… too much… when he wanted to. "Baby," she managed. "Friends of mine. A little girl. SIDS." Tears seeped into her eyes, and her gaze fell to his chin.

"Oh." Then, his sympathy edged with a note of disapproval, "You did the postmortem?"

"Assisted. They asked me to, and how could I tell them..." Her voice trailed off and she looked into his eyes again, and said huskily, "It's alright."

But he frowned at that. "No it's not," he said, his voice rough with shared sorrow, and he pulled her close, into his embrace, one hand tangling in her hair. Warm and solid... and _safe_. She felt him kiss the top of her head before saying, "Go to sleep, Molly."

She sighed, and gave a watery chuckle, too, as she settled against him, breathing him in. And then, surprisingly, she found she was able to comply with remarkable ease.

Though perhaps, she thought as she drifted off, it wasn't really so surprising, after all.

~.~


	3. This New Day

_**~ This New Day ~**_

* * *

When Molly woke again, several hours later, Sherlock was sound asleep, his embrace now slack, his curls mussed, his face peaceful and far younger, save for the scant, scruffy reddish-brown shadow of his beard. The urge to kiss him was strong, it seemed that every feature of that beloved countenance called to her: cheek, nose, brow; the prickly jawline; his lips, slightly parted as he breathed, deep and even. But she resisted. He needed to rest as long as possible. The previous day had been full of trauma, and she feared those coming would not be easy for him either, in spite of the hope of happiness he had once again awakened in her.

Cautiously, she slid from his arms, and then with silent stealth began to slip away. But true to form, he woke. "Molly?" he mumbled, his brows twitching together.

She darted in as he began to rouse himself and kissed him, gently, on his lips, a blush rising at her daring. She said softly, "Have to use the loo."

And his brow smoothed. He gave a sleepy smile and his eyes closed again.

 _Excellent!_ she thought, and went to use the en suite, taking the time to wash her face and run a brush through her hair. She was even more pleased with herself when she reentered the bedroom and saw that once again he was deep in slumber.

Sleep was a great healer, and it was sometimes most elusive for the great Sherlock Holmes, a fact of which she'd recently been forcibly reminded. After Culverton Smith's arrest, Sherlock's friends had taken it in turns to watch over him, since he'd abandoned the hospital as soon as he could stand unaided, and flatly refused to go to a rehabilitation facility. The subsequent weeks had been quite challenging for everyone involved, and particularly for Molly who had taken the night watch, often Sherlock's most difficult hours. She had endured much, particularly at first. Ill temper, whining, miles and miles of traipsing the dark streets of London; badgering or coaxing (whatever worked) to get him to eat decently. She had patiently wiped the sweat from his brow, held him shaking in her arms more than once, dried his tears of remorse or self-pity, and distracted him as best she could at all points. It had become easier after the first couple of weeks, but even now she felt that she was still recovering from those often very long nights. And though Sherlock had, for some weeks now, been taking great care to show them all that he was now back on an even keel, she was fairly certain it was only his strength of will that enabled him to do so consistently.

And now this. A mad, murderous sister? That he hadn't known about? And she still had little idea of what had actually occurred in their encounter with the woman.

Molly was capable of great patience, particularly where Sherlock was concerned, but she very much hoped he would be willing to explain things to her in the cool light of this new day.

She went downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, then stared into her refrigerator, trying to decide what to offer him for breakfast when he should wake. An omelet, she thought. He liked her omelets. Perhaps with cheddar cheese and a few slices of glazed apple, and some bacon, and toast with marmalade - she had some good brioche left from the previous weekend, when she'd purchased it to make eggy bread for John and little Rosie.

Dear Rosie! And John - she was suddenly seized with a need to know how _he_ was faring - Sherlock had said John had been trapped in an old well for several hours on the old, abandoned Holmes family estate.

A family estate. Heavens. She'd known Sherlock sprang from a posh background, but that seemed a bit much, compared to her own modest, very middle class upbringing. Success had come to her through dogged perseverance and the good fortune to qualify for scholarships, but it seemed as though it was Sherlock's _birthright_ \- which, admittedly, she had always realized, in a vague fashion. The imminent reality of it might soon affect her in a number of ways, however, and that worried her a bit - though, of course, his parents had seemed very kind, not at all standoffish, when she had met them after his "fall". They had wanted to meet her, since she had had so much to do with the success of "Lazarus", and Mycroft had driven her up to their home outside Cambridge to do so. The visit had gone some way toward easing her grief at his departure, and the circumstances surrounding it.

Her mobile was still on the coffee table, where she had left it the previous evening. But Sherlock's Belstaff was draped over the sofa nearby, and as she walked in she noticed that his own mobile was buzzing away in the coat's pocket. She hesitated for only a half second before retrieving it. It had stopped buzzing by the time she had it in her hand, and was locked besides, but he'd given her the code early on in his latest recovery, since most of the time he'd been disinclined to answer it himself. _His Girl Friday_ , she thought with a grim smile.

She quickly entered the code and saw that there were two missed calls, both from Mycroft. She frowned, wondering if Sherlock would be willing to call his brother back. He usually resisted doing so, but with everything that had happened…

But she would not wake him. She put his mobile in one pocket of her dressing gown, and carried her own back to the kitchen to call John, putting it on speaker so she could put tea together at the same time.

John answered quickly. "Hello? Molly?"

"John, how are you? Are you alright?"

"Better than a few hours ago by a long way. Did Sherlock tell you any of it? How is he?"

"He's still sleeping. He hasn't told me much, yet, though he did tell me you were stuck in a well, and by a sister he didn't know he had?"

"Yeah," John said, slowly. "She… uh… she put him through these tests she'd devised. Pretty horrible, most of it. Five people killed before… well… before he made that call to you."

She stood there frozen for a moment. Then managed to ask, "Was… was that call one of the tests? Were you _there?_ "

There was a pause. Then, "Molly, I think I'd better let him explain what was going on."

"John," she said, firmly, "there were _four cameras_ found in my house. Were you there when he made that call? And... and did you..."

He sighed. "We were both there, Molly. Me and… Mycroft. Saw the whole bloody thing. I'm sorry."

"Oh, my God," she whispered, replaying the scene in light of this new information. She wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

"Molly, you have to hold it together," John said, very worried. "For Sherlock's sake - and your own. I swear… if you could have seen what it did to him..."

She gave a rather hysterical laugh. _What it had done to him ?_

But John went on. "Molly, ask him about the coffin. I mean… God, if this doesn't put him back on the drugs, nothing will. Look, he was telling you the truth. I would swear to it, on anything you can name-"

And then the phone was snatched off the counter and Sherlock was saying in a steely voice, "Yes, John, that will be all for now."

Molly, had yelped in surprise and backed away a couple of steps, and now heard John's tinny, " _Sherlock?!_ " just before the man himself disconnected the call with the jab of a long finger and a look that would have felled the doctor, had he actually been present. Then he turned to her, his eyes full of renewed pain.

"Oh, God," she said, her voice breaking. "Sherlock… _I'm so sorry!_ "

The pain turned to shock. " _You're_ sorry? What do _you_ have to be sorry about? It was _me_ , just as it always is!"

"No! No!" She shook her head. "I shouldn't have made you say it! I should have _known_ … known something was _wrong!_ " And she gave a hitching sob and tried to turn away.

But he wouldn't let her.

She found herself pulled into his embrace and held tight against him, and she couldn't help it, she fisted the soft material of his t-shirt and pressed her face against his chest, and wept. But his hand was in her hair again, and he was kissing her forehead and saying in between, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I meant it, Molly, I swear I did, not the first time, perhaps, but the second, God, it was like a bloody bolt of lightning, shattering my stupid… I swear to you! And I was so afraid… so afraid you would _hate_ me…"

"Hate you?!" she cried, pushing away from him and looking up at him, outraged, as well as hideously tear-ravaged again, she knew it even without a mirror to hand, and she didn't care. She grabbed at him, at his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

He gave a shocked chuff of laughter, but responded with alacrity, then finding the position a strain he grabbed her up and carried her into the living room, to the sofa, laid her down and half fell upon her. It was awkward, and messy, and fierce, and the feel of his arms and shoulders under her hands, the muscles of his back, the taste of him, the delicious weight of him as he bore her down into the cushions was everything her heart had ever desired.

After a while, he moved a bit and took her wrists in his hands and pressed them into the cushion, one on either side of her head, and looked down at her, panting. "This was… _not…_ how I envisioned doing this. So you don't hate me?"

She snarled, "You, Sherlock Holmes, are an _idiot!_ "

And he laughed. "I know." He settled down over her, loosening his grip on her wrists. "But you love me anyway?"

"Oh my God!" she said, with an epic roll of her eyes. "Of course I do! _Stupid!_ "

He kissed her again, to her immense satisfaction, smiling at the same time, and she really could not help returning the smile. It was pretty much the best kiss in the history of kisses.

It was difficult to say where it might have ended (well, not _that_ difficult) but after a bit the left pocket of her crushed dressing gown began to buzz and vibrate.

"What's that?" he demanded, offended at the interruption.

"Probably Mycroft, again. He called twice before."

It was Sherlock's turn for an eyeroll. "Of course he did. Bloody hell. I suppose I should see how he's doing. He was a bit traumatized by the whole debacle yesterday."

"I expect he was," Molly said. Her joy faded somewhat, remembering. "John said there were five people killed. Is that true?"

"Yes." He frowned, and then kissed her forehead lightly.

"And… he said something about a coffin?"

And at that, he scowled. "Bloody John."

"I don't think he meant to tell me that much. It just sort of… came out."

"Hmm. I daresay. It always does, doesn't it? I mean, look at his bloody blog!"

She started to chuckle, then stifled it. "Not really funny, this," she said apologetically.

"It _is_ a natural human reaction in times of stress, however, no matter how serious." He kissed her lips, gently, lingeringly.

When he was finished ( _Too soon! Too soon!_ ) she said, "I love you, you know."

"Yes. And I love you, too. Just as I said."

She said in wonder, "And… that's when you realized it?"

He sighed. "No. I've known it for a long time, I believe. But I thought - idiot that I am - that by not telling you, or acting upon it in any way - well, _almost_ any way - that I was keeping you safe." He frowned and added, thoughtfully, "Actually, I think it _did_ work for a while. I don't think Eurus knew about you until that day you brought the ambulance for me. To John's therapist's. _That_ was Eurus."

She stared. "Eurus… is that your sister's name? And she was John's therapist?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then said, "There's a lot to tell you."

"Yes!" she agreed.

"Can we.. go back to bed? It's easier to talk there. And… maybe we could reopen the discussion about getting a dog. Afterwards. Something to look forward to?"

She really could not help chuckling at that, but she also said, "No. I'm going to fix you breakfast first. When did you last eat anything?"

He looked first aggrieved, and then puzzled as he thought back. "I had some tea and a couple of biscuits yesterday. Before Mycroft came, and my flat got blown up. That was Eurus, too, by the way."

Molly shook her head. "If I didn't love you so much I would be having second thoughts about getting involved with you."

Sherlock nodded with a grimace. "She's a genius. An evil genius."

"I suppose that's why she and Jim got on so well?"

"I'm afraid so. For all of five minutes, from what Mycroft said. That's all it took."

He looked so sad that Molly kissed him again, and then said, against his lips, "Never mind, for now. We'll be alright. Don't you think so?"

And he began to smile again, a crooked smile, but genuine, lighting his eyes. "I do. I really do," he said with conviction, and rubbed his nose against hers.

~.~


	4. Breakfast with Mycroft

_**~ Breakfast with Mycroft ~**_

* * *

Sherlock rose from his prone position atop her on the sofa with the ease that was always a testament to his innate grace and a reproach to (what often seemed) her own lack thereof. He offered his hand to her and helped her to her feet, but then there was a moment of awkwardness. Years of reserve lay in splinters, but were not entirely swept away by any means, and when he colored slightly and muttered, "Be right back, have to use the toilet," and retreated up the stairs at a lope, she could fully relate to his feelings.

She scurried off to the powder room herself, a tiny room near the kitchen, and quickly tidied up, blushing at the sight of her thoroughly kissed lips, and not only because of that, either. In spite of her fear that the story he would soon relate would be awful, both in fact and implication, there was an almost giddy sense of joy in her heart. She was _loved._ Her affection and deep regard for him was _not_ unrequited. That was a weight to which she'd been resigned for a very long time but had only fully acknowledged and accepted in the last year, since she'd ended her engagement to Tom. The lifting of that weight had her ready to bounce, dance, shout, maybe burst - maybe float away entirely! She had to make a real effort to subdue the feeling, reminding herself that sometimes life got in the way of happiness, and there was virtually nothing else settled between them as yet. So she took several steadying breaths, fought down the smile that _would_ make the corners of her mouth twitch, and went to make him his breakfast.

Her elation must have been evident anyway, though, for when he came back into the kitchen and she turned to him, and saw him, beautifully brushed, washed, and dressing-gowned, his eyes widened and instead of sitting down in one of the chairs by the peninsula he came over to her where she stood cutting an apple into thin slices. He carefully took the knife from her and set it down before taking her in his arms.

"Molly, you are beautiful. Have I ever told you that?" he said in _that voice_ , and before she could stammer more than, "N-no!" he kissed her again.

It occurred to her, through a haze of blissful sensation, that the volume entitled _History of Best Kisses_ would again have to be revised.

" _Oh_ ," she whispered, when she finally could, though she felt oddly breathless and was very glad of his supporting arms (one of his hands seemed to have drifted south and was now splayed over her hip, crushing her firmly against him, which might account for some of the breathlessness).

"Oh, indeed. Are you certain you don't want to skip breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" She raised her hand to caress the side of his dear face, intending to pull him into another kiss.

But his hand left her hip (which was a shame) and caught hers, and he kissed her fingers. Then, still holding her hand, he said, "Bermuda Triangle."

She stared. "What?"

"Bermuda Triangle. It was from some film Mary made me watch, before Christmas last year. Something to the effect that a man could get lost in a woman's… _ah_ … Bermuda Triangle… so to speak… and never be heard from again."

"Bull Durham. Kevin Costner. Baseball."

"That was it!" He smiled, pleased.

Molly said, sadly, "It was one of Mary's favorites, too?"

"Yes. And yours, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. You know what I mean, then. I… I have no direct experience of such a thing, but I fear the quote may be all too accurate, considering my physical and emotional response to mere kisses."

"Those, Sherlock, were not _mere_ anything."

He could not help looking pleased again, of course, but said, "Nevertheless. Perhaps we'd better…"

"Cool off?" She gave a tiny snort of laughter.

"Restrain ourselves."

She sighed. "It's so tiresome being a responsible adult."

He kissed her again, but it was light and brief. "Make me some breakfast, please, Dr. Hooper."

"Alright. But you'd better call your brother back and see what he wanted. From the hints you've been giving me, I fear it might be important." With a slight smirk she pulled his mobile from the pocket of her dressing gown and handed it to him.

"If that doesn't cool me off, nothing will," he muttered, accepting it. "Probably destroy my appetite, too."

She went back to preparing the breakfast she'd planned, but couldn't help listening to the one sided conversation that soon began.

"Mycroft. When did you get back?" There was a long pause, then, "Really? Well. Give her my regards."

Molly turned to him and he waggled his eyebrows and silently mouthed, "Lady Smallwood!" Her own brows lifted and she gave a silent expression of approval.

But after another half minute, Sherlock's amusement was fading rapidly. He said, with an edge to his voice, "So when are they coming?... Your _office?_ Why on earth _there?_ " And, exasperated, he said to Molly, "My mother and father have been summoned to London so he can explain to them - no _we_ can explain to them - that their daughter, who did _not_ die in a fire as had been previously reported, has been up to some mischief these last few years. In his tomb of an office, at nine a.m. tomorrow!" Then he spoke into the mobile again. "No, Mycroft. They'll be devastated enough without exposing them to your gothic notion of what constitutes an appropriate workspace for the British government…. _No!_ "

At this point, Molly decided to break in, before things deteriorated further. She said quickly to Sherlock, "Ask him if they can come _here_. For breakfast, or perhaps lunch. You can explain to them after - I can always go upstairs, if you and Mycroft would rather be private with them."

Sherlock stared at her for a half second, then blurted, "But that would be your first meeting with them! _No_ , that would be-"

"No, I've met them," she broke in, mildly. "Several times, in fact."

He looked quite astonished. " _What?_ When was this?"

"At their home, the first time. After you'd left the country. Didn't Mycroft tell you he took me to see them?"

"No!"

"Oh. Well, he did. They… they seemed to want to meet me, since I had helped you with… your… your fall. From Barts. And then I ran into them again, a couple of times, when you were in hospital. After you'd been shot. Your mother took me for tea down in the canteen once, while your father sat with you in case you should need anything. So kind." He was still gaping at her, so she added, apologetically, "Of course you were still pretty out of it. I'm not surprised you don't remember that."

He shut his mouth, frowning with consternation and deep thought. Then he said into the mobile, "Did you hear all that?... Yes, we can discuss that later. But Molly's right: Neutral ground would be best for this, and her flat has just been swept so there will be no concern about security. Have Mummy and Dad come here, send a car for them, ten o'clock, we can all dine _en famille_ before we drop the bomb about Eurus."

He was silent again, and Molly noticed that his patience was dissipating as Mycroft replied at length, apparently raising a number of objections to the plan. When he glanced up, she gave him a look of sympathy. He gave her a grim smile in return, then finally seemed to have had enough of his brother's diatribe.

"Mycroft, _shut up_. For once just do as I say, because I'll be damned before I come to your office for such a reason, and believe me, you _don't_ want to tell them this without me at hand."

Mycroft apparently ignored the first of these behests. Molly shook her head and, her preparations in hand, set about making the omelet. As she was finishing it up, she heard Sherlock sigh and say, "Very well. But don't send them any earlier than four o'clock. _Goodbye._ "

"Four o'clock?" she asked as he disconnected the call with some vehemence and she plated his omelet.

"He wants his own people to sweep this place one more time, just to make sure Lestrade's found everything.

"Oh, no!" Molly exclaimed. "It took me hours to straighten everything when I got home last night."

"I'll remind them not to disarrange things, though they're fairly competent at leaving no evidence of their work, as I know too well."

"They've searched your flat?"

"Any number of times," Sherlock said, but absently as he was suddenly fixated on the sight of breakfast as she carried over his plate. "Lord, that looks good, and I'm bloody starving! Thank you!"

She smiled, extremely gratified. "It's always nice to have someone to cook for. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock said, and tucked in.

As she poured out their tea, Molly was aware of a conviction that she could get used to this sort of thing all too easily, and then she wondered if, in fulfillment of her heart's desire, she would now actually have a chance to do so, or if all this was but a dream? It certainly resembled a dream, in many respects, a very specific one she'd sometimes berated herself for entertaining, believing that she must at all times be armed against disappointment. Yet here they were. Admittedly, there were some nightmare elements lurking just out of sight, but still… very much a dream.

~.~


	5. A Second Cup

_**~ A Second Cup ~**_

* * *

"Would you like a second cup of tea?" Molly asked, gently.

Sherlock had been toying with the last of his toast, becoming very quiet in the last few minutes as she straightened the kitchen and, with pen and a favorite pad of cat-bordered note paper ( _Oh, Toby!_ she'd thought with a pang), jotted down a prospective menu for tomorrow morning's event.

"Please," he replied.

She poured them each a cup, saying, "I'll need to go to Waitrose later. I need a few things for brunch tomorrow."

"We can go when Mycroft's people arrive. Actually…" His voice trailed off and she found him eyeing her with grave consideration.

"What?" she demanded with a little laugh.

"Would you like to go see John and Rosie? I doubt John will be leaving the house today, but since we have to vacate these premises for a while-"

"I'd love to!" Molly said. "We can bring some takeaway and all have dinner together."

"I'll text him," said Sherlock, picking up his mobile. But less than a minute after he'd shot off the text, his phone began to play John's ringtone. Sherlock sighed and put it on speakerphone as he exchanged a glance with Molly, his own resigned, hers amused. "John," he said, laying the phone on the counter.

"Sherlock! Is… is everything alright? Do you have me on speaker?"

"Yes, Molly's here. More to the point, are _you_ alright? _I_ wasn't trapped in a well for hours last night."

John laughed. "Yeah, I'm okay. Could use some more sleep, but Rosie'll go down for her nap in a bit so I'll get a chance soon. But you're coming for dinner?"

"Molly and I, yes. We'll stop and get takeaway. We'll need to leave at four. Mycroft's people are coming to do another sweep for stray cameras or incendiary devices, just in case. My parents are coming here tomorrow morning, and Mycroft. Molly's planning a brunch. It will be quite the family reunion, with Eurus playing the part of the elephant in the room, of course."

"Good God!"

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock agreed.

"And Molly's good with it?"

"It was her suggestion," Sherlock said, with a crooked smile.

"Oh. Well. That's great. Very generous of you, Molls. You there?"

Molly smiled, too. "Yes, I'm here. Thank you, John. How is Rosie? Did she do alright with Stella and Ted?"

"Oh, yeah, she's great. I'm glad to have her with me today, though. Almost hard to believe it was just yesterday that I thought I might not ever... well. It's over now. More or less, I mean. Has he told you all of it?"

But Sherlock said, drily, "No, John. Not yet. I'm… working up the courage. As it were." He caught Molly's eye again, looking rueful.

John chuckled, but said, "Yeah. I know. Just tell her the truth, Sherlock. But there's a lot to tell, so I'll let you go. See you both at 4:30?"

"Yes," Molly said, firmly. "Have a good nap with Rosie."

"I will."

"Goodbye, John," said Sherlock, and disconnected the call.

When he peered up at her, somewhat hesitantly, she narrowed her eyes. "You're not _really_ afraid to tell me, are you?"

"I… well, yes. I don't _really_ want to speak of it at all. But… you have a right to know." All the humor faded from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Molly. I wanted you to be safe, and… I failed. Again."

She went quickly around to him. He held out his hands, but she gently caught his face in her own and made him look at her. "You are a great man, Sherlock Holmes," she said, with conviction, "but you are as human as the rest of us." And then she kissed him, very tenderly.

He gave an odd little hitching gasp against her lips, then pulled her into a rough embrace and pressed his cheek against her breast, his arms tight around her. She held him close and kissed his dark head in the way she had always longed to do, but she would not weep, not now, when he needed her strength.

After a minute or so she said, "Let's go back to bed. And after, you can tell me about that dog you're so keen on, too. Mary told me how fond you were of that Bloodhound, the one you borrowed that time she and John and Rosie went out with you. And didn't you have a dog named Redbeard when you were little? You might not remember, but you told me all about him when you were in hospital. An Irish Setter, wasn't he?"

Sherlock released her, and looked up, and, distressingly, there were tears in his eyes. "Molly," he said, almost in a whisper, "You… you're right. Let's go back to bed."

Concerned, and a little puzzled, she nodded and stepped back, taking his hand in hers. He got to his feet, and she led him out of the sunny kitchen, through the cool shade of the living room, then up the shadowed stairs.

~.~


	6. Everything

_**~ Everything ~**_

* * *

For a while, he lay silent in her arms. He was still tired, she knew, and heartsick on top of it, and so she just held him quietly, only occasionally moving her little finger slightly against his dark curls. It was enough, just to lie with him there, in the deep shadows- they had left the drapes drawn against the midday sun. She wished courage and forgiveness could be conveyed through osmosis, for she had enough for the two of them, she thought, even without knowing the details that comprised his anguish.

And maybe those qualities could, in a sense, be passed through the skin, from one being to another, for at last he moved, settling himself on the pillow facing her, just as they had been a few hours before, when dawn was breaking over London.

She took his hand in hers, and gave him the hint of a smile.

"You have to understand," he finally said, his voice low but steady, "that there are many things I am only beginning to remember. Much of my childhood was largely a blank to me for many years, and what I did recall seemed remote, like the memory of a dream. But now, what with the events that took place yesterday, and some truths almost literally _pried_ from Mycroft, I am beginning to remember. Just flashes - but being at Musgrave last night brought much into the realm of reality.

"We lived at Musgrave until I was eight years old. Mycroft is seven years my senior, but Eurus was only a year older than I. She… exhibited evidence of psychoses from an early age, apparently, along with the intelligence that Mycroft terms _incandescent_. And she was very attached to me - and I to her, I believe. Yet, as I grew older, I formed outside friendships, as children do. Well, most children. Eurus was… _unsuited_ to the day school where I attended. And Musgrave is quite isolated. I'm sure our parents attempted to have other children visit, but Eurus would not have been able to relate to them - perhaps would have harmed them, in fact. I, however, formed a close friendship with another boy who lived fairly close by and went to the same school. His name was Victor Trevor, but in our play - our adventures as pirates, during which we roved the length and breadth of the estate - my name was Yellowbeard, and his was… Redbeard."

She stiffened, and Sherlock raised his eyes to hers. "I never had a dog, Molly. Victor was Redbeard, and one day, when I was too busy playing with Victor to have any time to spare for her, Eurus killed Victor by trapping him in a long-abandoned well. He was never found, and though it was suspected that my sister had caused his disappearance somehow, it was never proven, until last night, when John was trapped in the same well and found some of Victor's bones."

Molly stared at Sherlock's grief-stricken face and could not help choking, "Oh, Sherlock, how… how _horrible!_ For him, and you, and… and _everyone!_ "

"Yes." He paused as though gathering himself together once more. "I don't remember much detail of the aftermath, just a deep sense of grief. And isolation. I… Mycroft says I was… an emotional child. I did not return to the day school. But I was estranged from Eurus as well. It was suspected she had been behind Victor's disappearance. There was a song she would sing, something she had made up, and the answer was in it, but neither Mycroft nor I could work out the puzzle, and Mummy and Dad thought it nonsense. They could not allow themselves to believe their beautiful little daughter a murderer, even with all the evidence that she was… _other_. But a month later, she set a fire in the house. It started in my room, but spread through much of the upper story, and that, and the subsequent water damage, rendered the house uninhabitable. My uncle stepped in at that time. He occupied a position in government similar to the one that Mycroft now occupies. He took Eurus away to what he assumed was a secure institution, and assisted my parents' move to their new home - the one you've apparently visited."

"And Musgrave is still abandoned?" Molly asked.

"A great many repairs would have been needed to make it livable again, and my parents never had the heart for that, not after everything that had happened. Their current home is, perhaps, not as grand, but it is comfortable, as you must have seen."

"Oh, yes. I liked it very much. And it seems to suit them."

"Yes. I doubt if my parents ever considered selling the estate - it's been in the family for generations and, from what Mycroft says, it still brings in enough income from several leaseholders to cover the taxes. But they settled into their new home, and I began to attend a new school - though there were difficulties. And when I began referring to Redbeard as… as a _dog_ … a deceased family pet… they… they all thought it best to encourage that particular delusion. I had also convinced myself that I had never had a sister. And then Mycroft began teaching me that emotion - _sentiment_ \- was something that would only impede my ability to thrive and succeed. Very likely he thought he was telling me the truth, though whether he took his own precept to heart is another matter. He's not as hard and cold as he would like one to believe."

Molly could not help the wry laughter in her voice as she said, emphatically, "No!"

Sherlock's eyes met hers and he smiled a little. "How," he said in quite another voice, "have I been fortunate enough to retain your friendship - and more than friendship - when you can see so clearly? It makes me inclined to question your judgement, Dr. Hooper."

She sniffed. "My judgement, Mr. Holmes, is as sound as it ever was - or sounder, since I am no longer blinded by your devastating good looks, or your flair for the dramatic."

"Not at all?" he asked, feigning dismay.

She fought down a smirk. "Just a little, perhaps. Now go on: Mycroft is _not_ hard and cold."

He sighed, but resigned himself and said, "Well, he is, of course, though much of it is an act." He grinned when she rolled her eyes and added, "I know, I know: pot vs. kettle. But even you have to admit it's extremely useful at times. Still, repression of emotion often backfires. I don't excuse myself from culpability, but I believe much of my appetite for drugs at university stemmed from the painful and often discouraging effort to eliminate sentiment from my life - not to mention the way in which said efforts isolated me from my peers long before that, which only added to the problem.

"But, to go on: Eurus had died in a fire, as I said. _I_ was told nothing of it, but that was the lie told to my parents, to account for the lack of a body, I presume. For she had indeed set a fire at the institution where she was being held, and there were several persons killed and injured, but my sister was not among them. So my uncle had Eurus moved, to a very secret maximum security facility off the coast: Sherrinford. It… it's not a good place. Dreadful, in fact. But it was thought to be secure enough to hold her for the duration of her life, and moreover, as a government facility, my uncle - and in more recent years, Mycroft - would have easy access to Eurus, to ensure her safety and welfare, of course, but also - and probably more importantly, knowing my uncle - to allow them to exploit that incandescent intelligence. That's where it was supposed to end. But obviously it did not.. We don't know precisely how long Sherrinford has been compromised, but… well, my uncle died under suspicious circumstances over ten years ago, and I fear that many of my _games_ with Moriarty - or _Jim_ , as you like to call him-"

"I _can't_ call him Moriarty," she objected, hurt at his snide tone. "It makes me sick enough to think of him as _Jim!_ "

"Yes, well, you were certainly ready to bite my head off for warning you about him that first time you introduced us."

She groaned at this dredging up of ancient history, and said tartly, "That's because _you_ were a bloody _git_ \- and probably jealous, to boot!"

"I was not!"

She huffed, "Whatever. Go on: what about your _games_?"

His amused satisfaction at ruffling her feathers died away as he got back on track. "Those games may have originated in the mind of my sister. Some of them, at least. Somewhere along the way she started demanding presents from Mycroft, in exchange for her services, such as they were, and one of those presents was five minutes, unsupervised, with Moriarty. Mycroft, intelligent as he is, had no notion what an impact that five minutes would have on all of us. And after Moriarty's death and my eventual return from the dead, Eurus became far bolder. She has a talent for disguises and mimicry, as all three of us do, but she also has an uncanny ability to persuade. Moriarty was only one of her dupes. The whole security and administration of Sherrinford was eventually compromised, and she was able to leave and return without hindrance. It was she who created the Moriarty broadcast that saved me from exile and certain death-"

" _What?_ " Molly yelped, half rising on her elbow.

"Oh," said Sherlock. "I'd forgot I hadn't told you about that."

"You mean… but you didn't even say _goodbye!_ "

He stared at her, tense and suddenly barely in command of himself. But then he pulled himself together and said, eyes on her chin, "Molly, do you remember Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

She said, quietly, "Yes, of course. You… you _did_ kill him, then."

He looked up quickly, his face very pale. "You _knew?_ "

She said carefully, "I thought… when you didn't come back to town right away. After Christmas. But then, after the broadcast you reappeared and… and seemed back to your usual self. Or more so. But you did kill him, then. And Mycroft couldn't… couldn't _help?_ "

"That _was_ his way of helping. They couldn't very well put me in prison - I'd have been dead in a week, what with the many I've helped put behind bars. So he got me six months in Eastern Europe. Or at least that was his estimate. Originally he'd advised me against taking that assignment, but in light of… of Magnussen…"

Molly bent her forehead to his and said softly, "Oh my God. It seems I have one more thing to thank Eurus for."

"Then you… Molly, I _murdered_ a man. In cold blood."

She backed away again and looked at him solemnly. "In cold blood? You planned it in advance?"

"W-well, no! I had another plan - which in retrospect was fairly asinine. It hinged on betraying Mycroft, and by extension the British government, in order to obtain some papers Magnussen was using to blackmail… a client."

"It was Mary, wasn't it?" Molly asked in a small voice.

Sherlock stared. "Did _she_ tell you?"

"Well, not that there were any papers involved."

"There weren't. He had a Mind Palace. The same memory technique I use."

"Oh. How.. how awful for you!"

"I… well, yes. But… _Mary told you?_ "

"Yes. Not long after Rosie was born. She felt I should know something of her past, since I was to be Rosie's godmother. She said you knew, and that it might prove important. I think she suspected that she might… might not live to see Rosie grow up." A tear slipped from Molly's eye, but she brushed it away, impatiently and looked straight at Sherlock. "So your plan fell apart and you couldn't think of anything else to do?"

"Yes!"

"Yes," Molly said, sadly. "She said that's what happened to her, too. When she shot you. I… I almost couldn't forgive her that. But you so obviously had, almost immediately. The way you helped her, and cared for her when John had virtually abandoned her - as soon as you were able, at least. And you told me yourself that you were hoping Christmas would finally bring them together once more. So, in the end, I did forgive her."

Sherlock pulled her down then, into his embrace, and they clung together for long moments. Molly shed a few more tears, and she knew Sherlock was trying very hard to hold himself together. Finally, he said, unsteadily "So, you don't think I'm a horrible old murderer?"

She smiled, sadly. "No. I _know_ you. But… does it haunt you?"

"Yes. Sometimes I ask myself what I could have done differently."

"And do you ever give yourself a reasonable reply?"

"No."

She moved a bit, and kissed him, and he responded hesitantly at first, and then not hesitantly at all. Turned them so that he was half on top of her, and she melted beneath him, opening her lips, tasting him, breathing the same air.

But then she began to sense - or _felt_ , actually - a new urgency in him, and though she could not help smiling beneath his kiss, she presently moved her mouth toward his ear and murmured, "Are you certain you have no direct experience of this?"

It was like a dash of cold water - a very small dash, but enough that he stopped, and gave a kind of gasping laugh. "Pretty certain, though when I was at university there were more than a few nights I don't remember very clearly."

She found that her cheeks were burning, but the time for dissimulation was past. She said, "Well… of course I'm quite willing - and indeed, anxious - to assist you in expanding your horizons in this area. But can you finish telling me what you need to, first?"

 _ **To be continued...**_


	7. Everything Else

_**~ Everything Else ~**_

 _With profuse thanks to arianedevere for her transcript of The Final Problem..._

* * *

Sherlock gave a short laugh, and kissed her lightly. "Yes. Alright. I suppose I'd better get it over with, now that I've begun." He rolled off and made himself comfortable by her side once more, his face close to hers on the pillow, close enough that he could easily kiss her - and did. Then he said, with a glint in his eye, "Never knew it would be so _hard_ to confess."

"Sherlock Holmes!" she said with a pretense of indignation. "You told me once that lewd jests are _common_."

"Not when _I_ make them, obviously."

She groaned, tempted to snog him senseless, but she managed to say instead, "Enough. We need to _focus_. You say that Eurus was responsible for the Moriarty broadcast?"

"We believe so. Still don't know quite how it was done, and who was involved. Mycroft will have his work cut out for him, attempting to sever every tendril of her influence. It's almost unfathomable… but the evidence is there. As I said, she'd been coming and going from Sherrinford for some time. And after my… er… _stay of execution_ , she began showing up in all sorts of places. We know about a few of her disguises because John and I were her targets. She was John's new therapist, as I told you - and we found the real one in the airing cupboard, just as she told him."

"The real therapist was _dead?_ "

"Very. For quite some time."

"When did you discover the body?"

"Day before yesterday, in the early afternoon. John had a nine a.m. appointment with her that day, during the course of which Eurus revealed her true identity and shot him with a tranquilizer dart. She was gone, of course, when he woke up a few hours later, and he called me immediately. After I'd checked things over, we spent the rest of the afternoon devising a trap for Mycroft. John said we'd have to… well, frighten him. Before he'd tell us the truth."

"But wait, the poor therapist? What did you do with the body?"

"Oh, gave an anonymous tip to the police. But the Mycroft Trap! That was the most fun I've had in ages. John, too. He really got into the spirit of the thing."

Molly narrowed her eyes. "You seem entirely too pleased, considering the serious nature of all this."

"Well, one has to glean happiness where one finds it - as you know quite well, Dr. Hooper."

"Yes, alright. What did you do?"

"All sorts of things. My homeless network helped, too. We knew it would be Old Movie Night, and went from there. Spliced in some old family films. Brought in a clown - he hates clowns. Fixed up some of the old portraits in his hall gallery so that they bled from the eyes. You should have seen him! I really did think he was going to pi-" He suddenly remembered himself and gave Molly a rueful - and silent - look.

" _Piss himself_?" she supplied, _not_ laughing,

"Exactly!" he said, sounding relieved. "And it worked! He came to Baker Street yesterday morning to reveal all - and he got through quite a lot of it before Eurus sent that drone to visit us and blew the place up."

Molly reminded herself that, in allying herself to Sherlock, she would need to be resigned to lighthearted accounts of near disaster if she were to retain any semblance of sanity, so she did not berate his frivolous tone, but only asked, "How did you all survive?"

"Jumped out the windows. Well, John and I did. Mycroft took the stairs and got Mrs. Hudson out. We were all a bit singed around the edges, and John skinned a knee, but the awning over Speedy's more or less broke our fall. Eurus didn't want to kill us. Would've spoiled her fun."

"Of course," Molly murmured. "What about her other disguises? You said there were several, that you knew of."

"Ye-es," Sherlock said, somewhat diffidently. "She came to me as Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith."

"That was Eurus?" Molly exclaimed. "You weren't hallucinating, then!"

"No! That was something of a relief. I mean, I was off my tits, as you saw, but my brain was unimpaired. Wiggins really is quite a good handler. I need to send him a gift of some sort."

"Yes, you can think about that later. Any other disguises? _I_ haven't met her, have I?"

"I don't know! You very well might have done. There's only one other that we know of for certain, and that's only because she revealed it to John along with her disguise as his therapist. But it went further back, before Mary was killed. John met her on the bus one day - young, red-haired, Irish. And friendly. She gave him her number."

Molly stared, aghast. "He… he called her? Saw her again?"

"Nooo. Well he saw her twice, actually, but only in public. Other than that, it was just texting."

" _Just_ texting."

"Yes! I mean… it _is_ understandable. New father, dead tired and playing second fiddle to an infant? And John being John - Three Continents Watson and all that - of course he was susceptible to a pretty, flirtatious woman!"

Molly's heart froze within her.. "Sherlock, do you really believe that? That it was… _nothing?_ "

He stared at her for a moment, then said, "No. But that's what I told him. That's one of the things that made the situation with Mary so much worse, Molly. It wasn't just that she took a bullet meant for me. He… he never had a chance to confess. To tell her he was sorry. Because you're correct: texting is never just texting. Which reminds me..."

"Reminds you of what?"

An odd look came over him. Wary, perhaps. He said, "Never mind. Just something I need to do later."

Molly pressed her lips together.

Sherlock said, rather desperately, "Molly, don't be angry with John. He's a good man - but he is just that: a man. And all too human."

She knew he was right, but still... "Yes. We all are, aren't we?" she said, finally. Sadly. "Alright, go on. What happened after the explosion?"

"We regrouped. The Met and Mycroft's people showed up shortly after the fire brigade. Greg took Mrs. Hudson off to catch a train to Devon and her sister's-"

"What? Wait!" Molly broke in. " _Greg?_ "

Sherlock raised a brow, and looked annoyed. "That _is_ Lestrade's name."

" _I_ know that but… oh, well, forget it. Go on. Mrs. Hudson went off to Devon."

"And Mycroft had his people secure 221B, locked out the press as best he could, though it was leaked that we'd all sustained injuries, with his the most serious. By that time we were well on our way out of London. A helicopter took us out to the coast, and then we went in dark. Mycroft even donned a fairly elaborate disguise, which he quite enjoyed. Mine was simpler, but I did get to commandeer a boat. _Sherlock Holmes the Pirate_."

Molly managed to refrain from groaning again at his gleeful satisfaction at this title, and was ultimately glad of it for it faded rapidly, and he turned quite solemn.

"From then on it was more of a waking nightmare. Once we got in, we split up, which was, in retrospect, a mistake. But we had no way of knowing how far things had gone. I went in to see Eurus, while Mycroft and John stayed behind to question the governor of the facility." He stopped speaking then, and his eyes were distant.

Alarmed, Molly said, "Sherlock… it's alright. You don't have to tell me every detail. Or...or anything more. If it's too much."

His eyes focused on her again, and he took a deep breath. "No. But perhaps… just the bare bones of it, for now. Which is bad enough in all truth." His voice was hard, with a bitter edge, as he continued. "Eurus had control of the place, and the three of us ended up locked in a cell with the governor. It was a multimedia event. There was a screen, on which Moriarty would occasionally appear, egging us on in his inimitable fashion. And there was a voice feed, from a phone call. A little girl, trapped on a plane, all the other passengers and crew asleep. Eurus silenced the call after a short time, and said the plane would crash, unless I would participate in… in what turned out to be a series of tests. Experiments."

He fell silent again, and she prompted quietly, "Experiments?"

"She wanted to observe me… well, all of us. Our reactions as we made moral choices in life and death situations.

"In the first, she presented us with a pistol and said that unless John or Mycroft shot and killed the governor, she would kill his wife. Euros and the wife were there behind a glass partition, the wife... restrained. I was to choose between John and Mycroft. Ultimately, neither were able to do it, the governor got hold of the pistol and killed himself, and Eurus… killed the wife. Since the _conditions of her survival_ had not been met."

"Oh my God," Molly whispered.

"Yes." He took her hand in his, but his eyes were distant again as he went on. "A door opened and we were instructed to navigate a passage that ended in another room, smaller this time, and the walls splattered with what looked like dried blood, but with a large window overlooking the sea. The phone call from the young girl was connected again, briefly. Then, to _earn phone time_ with her, I was given the task of solving a murder committed by one of three brothers, surname Garrideb. The gun used in the crime was there, a rifle, and pictures of each of the men. John and Mycroft were encouraged to participate in the deduction. Mycroft was resistant, though ultimately assisted when context was presented - a bit more conversation with the girl on the plane, and… and the three brothers, hanging outside the window, bound and gagged. I was to condemn the guilty party. Which I did. But Eurus dropped them _all_ into the sea."

Molly bit her lips against further exclamation, but did squeeze Sherlock's hand, rather convulsively. He looked into her eyes then, and moved forward, and kissed her forehead.

"The third test was the call to you. We were sent into a small, dim room, with a screen and… a coffin. The one John you. We were given another minute on the phone with the girl, and then Eurus cut us off and said, _Someone is about to die._ As you might imagine, I had no reason to doubt it."

"The coffin was… for _me?_ "

"It… seemed likely that it was one you might have chosen. That much could be deduced from the size and style of the thing. But the brass plate on the lid clarified matters."

"W-was my name on it?"

"No. Only the words _I Love You_."

"And… you knew it was me?"

"Of course I knew. You might never have said those words aloud to me, but our every interaction… all these years… it's always been true. Just as you told me."

His voice had dropped to an agonized whisper, his eyes closing, and his expression was so full of suppressed pain that Molly's breath hitched on a sob as she whispered, "Sherlock!"

His eyes glistened in the dim light when he opened them again. "I don't think I've ever done anything harder in my life. Knowing how I was hurting you. Seeing you, there on the screen. Betraying you, the truest friend I had in the world. But I had to, of course, to try to save your life. And then, when you told me to say it first... " His expression grew hard, though a tear slid down his cheek. "I'm not sure how - or if - I will ever forgive my sister for… for making a mockery of what should have been… _a holy thing_ , just between the two of us. All these years I thought I was protecting you… so deeply important to me, and… and involved… and yet you had escaped everyone's notice just as you'd escaped mine in the beginning. I thought you were safe because I would not surrender to sentiment. _Stupid!_ "

And to Molly's horror, he pulled her into his arms, buried his face against her neck and shoulder, and wept.

 **o-o-o**

She waited for him, lying alone in the bed after he'd recovered himself somewhat and stumbled off to the en suite. Guilt still ate at her, though she knew it was nonsensical. She could not have imagined the insane circumstances behind that call, and with everything that had come before in her bad day, she could not have reacted in any other way - except, perhaps, if she had disconnected, in spite of his panic-stricken plea. And who knew what might then have happened. He might well have been convinced that she had died. The whole outcome at Sherrinford might have changed, and not for the better.

She sat up, wearily. Worrying about him. She pulled some tissues from the box beside her bed and wiped her cheeks. Blew her nose. Wondered if this had all been too much for him. This _confession_.

But then he finally emerged again, and to her infinite relief, came to her, a very slight, almost boyish smile on his lips as he laid himself down beside her once more and drew her close, so that her head rested against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, once (and she snuggled into him, hugging him, trying not to weep again), but otherwise he just lay still for a couple of minutes, holding her.

And at last he began to speak again, calm, tired. "I destroyed the coffin afterwards. Deliberately and thoroughly. Lost it entirely while doing, John and Mycroft were quite shocked. _All those complicated little emotions_. Those were Eurus's words. They did not seem so _little_ to me at the time.

"John helped me up, eventually. _Soldiers_ , he said. That was the word of the day. We went on to the next room, an elimination round. I still had the pistol, and I was now to kill either my brother or my friend, whichever I felt was least useful." He laughed a bit. "Mycroft tried to get me to choose him by telling me the many reasons why _John_ would be the logical one to eliminate. It was a poor performance, as I told him. But ultimately I refused, and turned the gun on myself, counting back from ten. That development didn't sit well with my sister. It was the only time in our hours at Sherrinford that I heard her speak with authentic emotion. So it was tranquilizer darts again, for John _and_ me, this time. Mycroft was stashed in her cell, and she, John, and I were transported to Musgrave.

"I didn't know it was Musgrave, of course, not at first. When I regained my senses I was lying on a table in what appeared to be another cell in Sherrinford. There was a lantern, and some photographs attached to the walls, and I had been fitted with a wireless earpiece through which I was able to communicate with the girl on the plane, with John, and with Eurus. The girl berated me for my hours-long absence, and from her description it was apparent that the plane was approaching its destination: London. John had come to at about the same time as I, and realized fairly quickly that he was trapped in a well, chained to the floor of it, and that there were bones under the water. When he told me that, I knew I was not at Sherrinford.

"Upon examination, the photographs displayed were of scenes and people from my childhood, and when I pushed at one of the walls of the 'cell', the whole thing collapsed outward around me. It was black night and I was on the grounds of Musgrave Hall - and I thought that the bones John had found in that well were undoubtedly Redbeard's.

"Euros took a turn in the voice feed as I snatched up the lantern and ran to the house, and as I went inside, there she was, projected on a screen again, in the entryway. She told me it was time to solve the Musgrave ritual or she would drown another of my _pets._ I heard John, again, seemingly from a room off the entry. I went in and there was another screen, displaying John in the well, water pouring down over him. Then the girl in the plane was back, too, increasingly panic stricken.

"I had mere minutes to save them both by solving a riddle that had completely baffled both Mycroft and I all those years ago.

"What was needed was emotional context. John slipped and fell and found more bones: a child's skull. And when he told me that, it came back to me. Victor, my best friend was Redbeard. The two of us were so involved in our games that we barely noticed my sister, who had no friends at all, and felt as though she was losing me as well. She had no-one - just as it said on one of the funny gravestones in the garden. They were a sort of folly in miniature, the names made up, the dates all wrong. And one said Nemo Holmes, 1617-1822, Aged 32 years. Nemo: from the Latin for on-one. Nobody.

"She had killed Victor, though. That fact was hard to bear. But I would not lose another friend that way, if I could help it.

"The wrong dates on the gravestones were the key to the cipher, and the cipher was the song - it was never a set of directions as Mycroft and I had assumed. I was able to break the code. It led me to Eurus, in what had been her room in the house. And _she_ was the girl on the plane, the one who was alone and unable to land. I told her I would help her, that I would bring her home, that it was not too late, she had just gone the wrong way last time. And she told me, finally, where to find John."

Molly breathed, "Thank God!"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "That's nearly all of it. A neighbor, one of the leaseholders, had noticed all the lights and activity and had come to investigate. I met him as I ran out the door, and he let me use his phone to text Lestrade, then helped me get John out of the well. The local police showed up, and Lestrade wasn't far behind, having come by helicopter - but you knew that. He said you'd called him and told him about my strange phone call to you. He told me that you were so worried that you had wanted to come with him. It was that thought - that you still cared and were waiting here for me - that helped me through the next bits. Telling everything to the police. Seeing my sister so broken and lost to the world once more, and I unable to do more than send her back to her long imprisonment – for that time, at least.

"And then… I came home to you."

She could not help smiling a little. "The end of the story."

But he said, "No, not at all." He moved, adjusting their positions,scooting down so that once more they lay face to face; tenderly brushed her hair back behind her ear, kissed her, and said, "It's a new beginning."

~.~


	8. Dinner with John

_**~ Dinner with John ~**_

 _Part 8 of 15 in Aftermath_

* * *

The muffled rapping could be ignored, but the sound of the distant doorbell dragged Molly from the depths of slumber, and the task was completed when Sherlock issued an audible groan and his long limbs contracted about her, clinging both to her and the peace of blessed oblivion. Her eyes popped open, and she pushed against him, trying to squirm up enough to catch sight of the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. She just managed it.

4:04 P.M.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked. "They're here! Wake up! We have to let them in, and get out of here."

He released her then, rolling over onto his back, eyes blinking open. "God!" he muttered, "I could sleep for a year!"

"I know!" she said, deeply sympathetic, but struggling up and off the bed just the same. She grabbed her dressing gown and started to put it on. "I'll go let them in."

But he roused himself at that. "No, I'll go," he said, suddenly throwing off the covers.

"Why?" she demanded, watching him get to his feet and stagger a couple of steps as he reached for his own dressing gown, lying across the foot of the bed. "It's _my_ house!"

"It's _my_ fault they're here!" he snapped, then immediately looked contrite. He came over to her and bent and kissed the frown from her lips. "I'm sorry. But just in case."

She was still frowning (mostly), but gave a curt nod. But when he smiled and said, "Good girl," and headed for the door, she scowled at his retreating back, swiftly tied and pulled tight the sash of her dressing gown, and followed him out of the bedroom. She was certainly no longer a _girl,_ and complying with his every arbitrary decree did not make her _good_.

She was still trotting down the stairs as he was looking through the peephole in the front door, but when, apparently satisfied, he swiftly unlocked it and swung it open, she paused warily on the bottom step for a moment.

"Mycoft!" he exclaimed. "And Anthea, too! Good God, it's a reunion.

"Yes," Mycroft said, wryly, stepping inside as Sherlock made way. Anthea came in and paused there, too, but four other figures slipped in past them, fanning out as they penetrated the ground floor of the house. Mycroft's glance took in Sherlock and Molly as he continued. "I felt that this task required the personal touch. Anthea and I will see to it that all is in order for your return, Miss Hooper."

Sherlock whirled around, saw her standing there and narrowed his eyes a bit - and if Mycroft had not been there she would have stuck her tongue out at him - but then he turned back to his brother and looked him up and down. "It's _Doctor_ Hooper, Mycroft, as you're well aware. Are you alright? Have you had _any_ sleep in the last thirty-six hours?"

"I had a very restful few hours' nap after we spoke this morning, thank you, and plan to retire directly after an early dinner this evening."

"Alicia's cooking?" Sherlock asked, with pointed amusement.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Mycroft said, primly. "And I see that you and Doctor Hooper have come to an understanding of sorts?"

"We have," said Sherlock, then caught Molly's eye and added, "Well, more or less. I've told her about Sherrinford, and a few other things, and she hasn't thrown me out yet."

"Her forbearance is only exceeded by her hospitality." Mycroft bowed his head slightly toward Molly. "I am deeply appreciative of the offer you have extended toward my family, Dr. Hooper-"

"It's _Molly_ , Mycroft," Molly interrupted, stepping down from the last stair into the foyer and padding toward the other three, the tile cold beneath her bare feet. "As you should remember." She came up beside Sherlock, briefly wondering what Mycroft and his P.A. thought of the two of them answering the door _en déshabillé_ , and then deciding, as Sherlock apparently had, that she really didn't care. She looked Mycroft over and said, "I'm sorry you felt you needed to come here yourself. From what Sherlock has told me, it was a difficult time for you, too."

"There was a degree of mental agitation involved, to be sure, but physically I am unharmed. I thank you for your concern, however."

Molly glanced from Mycroft to Anthea, asking, "Can I make you both a pot of tea before we get ready to go?"

Anthea said, "Had some in the car for him when I picked him up. You'd do better to just go get dressed so you can go out for a while - there's a car waiting outside for you. And don't worry about a thing. We'll make sure all's tidy before we leave. This is probably just a formality in any case. The Met's people are very reliable."

"That's true, for the most part," agreed Mycroft. "But with my parents coming here… well. One can't be too careful. And it's for your safety, and Sherlock's, too, since he seems to have taken advantage of your generosity once again. His own flat will be undergoing repairs for quite some time, I'm afraid."

"I… he… Sherlock knows he is always welcome," Molly said, all too aware that she was blushing.

"Just don't let him run roughshod over you," Anthea said, with a smirk at Sherlock's glare. "You need a firm hand at all times or he _will_ take advantage."

Molly fought down a chuckle as Sherlock said to the ever-composed P.A., "Yes, _Andrea_ , that will do."

Anthea - _Andrea?_ \- rolled her eyes and went on through the living room and into the kitchen.

Mycroft said, "We should only be a couple of hours at most."

Sherlock said, "Take your time. We're going to see John, taking some dinner over to him and Rosie."

"Give Dr. Watson my regards," said Mycroft with a smile. "And Rosie, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed. He frowned a bit, eyeing his brother again. "Don't overdo, brother mine. And try not to worry so much. Things will work out."

Mycroft started to look scornful and, indeed, gave a little laugh, but it sounded oddly uncertain, and there was no amusement in his eyes at all. "Of course. I… I'm quite hopeful of a favorable outcome."

Sherlock actually gripped his brother's arm for a moment. " _Soldiers_ , Mycroft. Don't forget."

Mycroft nodded and, as Sherlock turned away, gave his brother's retreating back a very odd look.

Almost respectful.

Then Mycroft saw that Molly was still watching him and he flushed slightly.

She gave him an encouraging smile, but had no time to speak as Sherlock had grabbed her hand and was now saying, "Let's get dressed and get out of here," and pulled her toward the stairs again.

When they were nearly back to the bedroom and out of earshot, Molly asked, " _Andrea?_ I always thought it was Anthea!"

"She hates _Andrea_ , made the other up," Sherlock said.

"So you call her by her real name to annoy her?"

"Of course."

Molly sniffed.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Don't you approve? I've known her for fifteen years, far longer than I've known you!"

"It just seems like something a stroppy schoolboy would do."

"Well, that's about the level of discourse we maintain." he agreed, apparently unoffended. He grabbed up his mobile as she closed the door. "What do you want? Chinese or Thai?"

"Thai," Molly said. "Rosie likes Mango with Sticky Rice, and she'll eat some Pad See Ew if we have it made with chicken. I can share with her." She walked over to him as he began to text with his usual rapidity.

"Right… and some Three Friends Panang for me...and John likes Pineapple Shrimp Curry… and we'll get some Pad Thai, too, and a couple of orders of Beef Satay. And some Angel Wings. There."

"A veritable feast!" Molly smiled up at him.

"We deserve a feast. And John will appreciate any leftovers, I'm sure." He glanced at her. "What are you doing? Get dressed, Miss Hooper! We're already running late, and the food will be ready for pick up in fifteen minutes!"

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper." She glared a bit.

And he grinned and swooped in, pulled her close and kissed her.

She giggled beneath it, then hummed with pleasure, her arms slipping up about him, but then he ended it abruptly and said, "Later! There are six people downstairs who could walk in on us at any minute."

"Very well," she sighed. "You still have some clothes here, thank goodness. Is your wardrobe at Baker Street entirely ruined?"

"No, the damage was mostly in the front room and kitchen, but all my clothes will need to be cleaned. There was a lot of smoke. Mycroft's people are going to take care of that, too."

Conversation languished as they gathered garments suitable for an evening with Dr. and Miss Watson, with a visit to Waitrose afterwards. Molly changed in the _en suite_ , taking some care with her hair, and applying a little make-up. Sherlock's "Later!" still echoed through her brain… well, her whole being… in the most enticing way. She wondered how serious this _Later!_ might be, and found that she wanted to go out and demand a complete explanation and a detailed timeline. But then she laughed at herself. She had been patient with him for years. She could certainly continue being patient for another few hours. But beyond that… she might just have to tie him to her brass bed frame and ravish him.

She was still smirking at that thought when she went back into the bedroom, and his appearance did nothing to dampen that warm flame of desire. He was smartly and impeccably dressed, as usual, in a suit she hadn't seen in a while, and wearing her favorite of his slim-cut, expensive shirts, aubergine in color, with the first button open as usual and the second straining a bit, as though aching to be undone.

"Is this alright?" he asked blandly, though his blue eyes were twinkling as he took in her expression.

She felt herself blushing again. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are an evil man," she said, with as much severity as she could muster (which was not much).

"I keep telling you that, and yet…"

She shook her head, fighting a smile as he came to her, but then gave it up and melted once more into his embrace, giving herself over to sensation as he kissed her once more.

Yet presently, a loud thud was heard from downstairs, and Anthea speaking sharply in the wake of the incident.

Sherlock pulled back, and frowned down at Molly. "We really can't keep doing this, Dr. Hooper. These trousers are quite snug in fit as it is. Come, let's away, shall we?"

 **o-o-o**

In the car, Molly got out her phone to check her email.

Sherlock said, "Send John a text that we're running late, will you?"

She quickly did as he'd asked, then noticed that he'd pulled out his own mobile and was busy sending a text, too. Immediately afterward, he pulled up his contacts list and did a search for IA. The information appeared, and presently a screen that presented him with the query, _Do you really want to block and delete this contact?_

"Here," he said to Molly, and presented the phone to her. "Do you want to do the honors?"

"Who is 'IA'?" Molly asked, but then she jumped a bit as his phone made a noise, a very disturbing noise, as of a woman in the throes of passion. It was a text alert that she had heard only once before, the culmination of a scene she would have been thankful to forget. "Oh my God, is that-"

"Irene Adler, yes, damn the woman. I just sent her a final text goodbye, and told her I was going to block contact, but she was too fast for me. For us. Here. Press that _Yes_ and she'll be history."

"Sherlock, how is it she's not dead? I _saw_ her!"

"No, it wasn't her." He frowned. "That's a long story, too, I'm afraid. But here, do it."

"No!" Molly said. Heavens, that was ages ago! Before his fall from Barts! "It has to be _your_ choice. You've been carrying on with her a long time, apparently. _You_ do it, if you feel you must."

He sighed, and without hesitation pressed the red _Yes_. "In that last text she said to tell you congratulations," he said as he put his mobile back in his pocket. "Perhaps that's not as appropriate as she might think it. _Carrying on_?" He gave a short laugh. "Do you want me to tell you about it?"

"I… " She flushed at his steady gaze and swallowed hard. "If you want to."

"Well, what I _don't_ want is a lack of honesty coming between us, though I have to say that particular story hardly redounds to my credit. Miss Adler was not in fact deceased. A few weeks after we had supposedly seen her in the morgue, I came home to discover her asleep in my flat. She presented me with an irresistible puzzle, which I solved, and thereby unwittingly revealed a rather important state secret to her and, by extension, to Moriarty - she _was_ his associate, though a somewhat reluctant one. Quite the independent soul, Miss Adler. At any rate, Mycroft was livid, and Adler gloating fit to burst. But there was something else, of course, and it saved me: the passcode to her phone, which was still in my possession - that was the gift I'd found on the mantelpiece that terrible Christmas Eve. We knew that phone held much more than a single state secret, however important. And I was finally able to crack the passcode, the four letters or numbers that had eluded me for months. S-H-E-R - _I am_ _Sher_ _locked_ , the screen read when the passcode was complete. Quite the tribute, all things considered.

Molly stared, open mouthed. "Then… she _did_ care for you!"

"After a fashion. Not one that would inspire any sort of close tie. She was intrigued by my intellect, of course, just as I was intrigued by hers. But she was also diverted by my limited sexual experience - understandable, given her profession. I did end up saving her life. Mycroft had had her shipped off to Karachi, and she ended up in the hands of some very bad men. Most inconvenient, but that's Mycroft for you. He's nothing if not thorough."

"You went to Pakistan and… rescued her?"

"Mmm. It was quite the adventure. Disguise. Swordplay. Desperate flight to the border and freedom."

Molly swallowed hard, and then had to ask. "Did you sleep with her?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment, and seemed to be studying her. "Would it make a difference?"

She was suddenly close to tears again, but managed to speak calmly enough as she replied, "I… you risked your life to save her. And you have apparently maintained ties to her ever since - even if it was _just texting_."

"It was _just texting_ , but in light of what is now between us, I knew it would do great harm if I let it continue. And no, I did not have any sort of sexual relations with her. Not that she didn't offer - and not that I wasn't tempted. But to give her that kind of power over me would have been madness."

"You were afraid?"

"Well, yes! But not perhaps in the way you're thinking. She was - _is_ \- an intriguing woman, quite brilliant in her way, and yet she… _er_ … uses her powers for evil, as the saying goes. Sex, for her, is a commodity, a means to an end, and though she offered her services to me that night in thanks for saving her life, no good would have come of accepting. As I told you, I believe I'm not _entirely_ without experience, but those blurry nights at university left little impression. With Adler, that would not have been the case. The event would have coloured my memories, and tainted every subsequent encounter, should it be my fate to someday form the sort of attachment that would induce me to abandon my self-imposed abstinence. In short, it wasn't worth it."

Molly turned her head away, for a moment. He saw too much, with those keen eyes, as penetrating as the mind behind them. But then she gathered her courage and forced herself to look at him again, her voice only slightly unsteady as she asked, "And have you? Formed such an attachment?"

He smiled, and picked up her hand and held it warm in his own. "I believe I have."

Molly bit her lip, and started to turn away again, groping in her handbag for a tissue.

But his arm slid around her shoulders and he drew her close against him. He tipped her chin up and gently kissed her quivering lips, and then said, "I'm sorry. So many things to be sorry for. But I do love you, Molly, upon my honor."

Ten minutes later, when the car paused at the Thai place so they could fetch their takeaway, Molly saw the driver's face as he held the door open for them, and she blushed vividly, realizing from the man's expression that he'd observed more in the rear view mirror than was either proper or desirable. Sherlock, however, merely gave the driver a withering glance, one brow slightly raised, before tucking Molly's arm in his and leading her into the restaurant.

 **o-o-o**

"Oh, that was good!" John exclaimed an hour and a half later, pushing back his chair as they were finishing their Thai feast.

Rosie crowed and babbled in agreement, and they all laughed, and Molly got up and gave her goddaughter a smacking kiss on her cheek. The little girl reached for her, demanding to be picked up, and Molly complied, lifting her from the highchair. "Oh, you're getting so big!" she exclaimed, delighted at Rosie's solid weight in her arms, and she laughed again as Rosie patted both her cheeks with her little hands. Molly looked up, met Sherlock's warm smile with one of her own - his interactions with Rosie when they'd first arrived had been nothing short of adorable, completely charming his fellow godparent - and then she said to John. "Shall I take her up and pop her in the tub? If she only had a short nap this afternoon she should be ready to go down fairly early."

"We live in hope," John said, wryly. "But yeah, that'd be great. I think Rosie would like that, too. She's been missing you these last few weeks."

Molly said, "I miss being with her every day, too. But I think her daddy has taken wonderful care of her. You even managed to put a bow in her hair!"

John shrugged, but looked pleased. "I try, at least."

"And succeed." All three adults' smiles were turning wistful. It was hard not to think of Mary, though a number of extremely eventful months had passed. Molly said to Rosie, "Come, Miss Watson, bath time and pyjamas await!"

As she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, she glanced back and saw that John and Sherlock were conversing as they cleared the table. "That's right," she said softly to Rosie. "It will do them good to talk without ladies being present. They've been through a lot these last few days. They're good men, Rosie - but you know that without me telling you."

Rosie entertained Molly in the bath for well over half an hour. The little girl could not yet walk on her own, but she was extremely proficient at crawling, and Molly repeatedly had to discourage her from pulling herself up and standing against the side of the tub, bouncing in delight at her accomplishment. She'd be walking soon, and then they'd be in trouble! In the meantime, she finally settled down to splashing and playing with her bath toys after Molly had finished washing her with a soft flannel. Rosie didn't even mind having her hair shampooed, which was a great relief. As the water cooled, Molly would let a little out and fill it back up with more hot from the tap. But finally Rosie paused in her play and gave a big yawn.

Molly laughed. "Time to get out, I think, Miss Watson."

A few minutes later, Molly carried her pink pyjama-clad goddaughter down to say good night. Dinner and dishes were all put away, and John and Sherlock were now sitting on the sofa, John with the last bottle of Singha and Sherlock swirling a snifter of brandy. But both men rose and set down their drinks to give Rosie a goodnight kiss.

John took his daughter in his arms for a moment, then glanced between the two godparents. "She tells me she's going to need a little playmate before long," he said, with a teasing gleam. "You two better get cracking if you're serious about this."

Molly's brows rose - what _had_ Sherlock been saying to John as they cleared up the dinner things? - but her smile slipped, too, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by longing - the dearest wish of her heart, and ordinarily not only well hidden but entirely unacknowledged, even by herself. She actually had to force a laugh when Sherlock said drily, "Subtle, John. You and my mother would get on splendidly."

John only grinned. "My filters are pretty much non-existent since my most recent near-death experience, so you can blame yourself. But you just remember what I said before we went for cake that time, eh?"

Sherlock sighed. "And as I said: you and my mother? Like this." And he held up two lean fingers, crossed tightly together.

Molly, longing to escape the awkward moment, said brightly, "Shall I put her down, John? Then you and Sherlock can continue your... um… discussion?"

John said to Rosie, "Good night, my love," and kissed her. She clung to his jumper a bit, so he kissed the top of her head, then gently disengaged her and handed her to Molly.

Sherlock bent and kissed Rosie's cheek, too, and then gave Molly a crooked smile and a wink. Molly felt herself flush, but as she carried Rosie from the room and walked up the stairs she realized that it was happiness that lit her soul. "Everything's going to be fine, Rosie-love," she said softly, and Rosie patted her arm, apparently agreeing.

 **o-o-o**

After two storybooks, Molly laid Rosie in her cot, said a goodnight prayer over her, as Molly's mother had faithfully done in innocent days long past, and then began to sing very softly.

Molly had always loved to sing, and though her voice was just passable in a karaoke bar, it was perfectly adequate for lullabies and Rosie had given it her unequivocal seal of approval. Often it had been the only thing that would quiet her, in the long days and nights after Mary's death, and Molly had developed a standard programme of songs that she could warble with some proficiency.

The little girl lay there, now, quietly sucking her thumb, her blue eyes blinking up at Molly, trying to stay awake for the entire performance, but to no avail. By the fifth song, which happened to be the eminently soothing _Sweet Baby James_ , Rosie's eyelids were drooping, and by the end of the piece she was breathing deeply, sound asleep.

"Good night, my darling," Molly said softly, and turned toward the door.

And there was Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe.

"How long have you been there?" Molly whispered as she came over to him.

"Three songs or so. You sing well."

"Thank you! Rosie seems to think so."

"You're... very proficient with her."

"We had a neighbor I used to sit for, so I did have some experience to start with. But you do well with Rosie, too."

"She's easy to do well with."

"Yes." Molly turned and took one last look at Rosie in her cot.

Sherlock said, "I didn't mean proficient, precisely. Though of course you are."

Molly looked at him again, cocking her head inquiringly.

"I meant to say… _beautiful_."

She stared, her heart thudding. She could not doubt his sincerity, not with that look on his face. Reaching out, she took his hand. "Thank you."

He turned his hand to grasp her fingers and lifted them to his lips. Then he retained her hand in his, warm and strong. "Do you want to know what John said? Before the cake place?"

"I… yes. What?" she asked, feeling somewhat breathless.

"He said that the chance doesn't last forever. That it's gone before you know it."

"Oh," she said, almost in a whisper. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we… I mean… let's go home."

~.~


	9. Dessert with Sherlock

_**~ Dessert with Sherlock ~**_

* * *

John was stretched out on his sofa, sound asleep and already snoring, when Molly and Sherlock descended the stairs to bid him goodnight. Sherlock took up the colorful afghan that was thrown over the back of a chair - a project they'd both observed Mary crocheting during the last weeks of her pregnancy - and he carefully laid it over his exhausted friend.

"He'll wake up if Rosie fusses," Molly said quietly, mostly to reassure herself.

"Yes, he will," Sherlock agreed, with a wry smile. "That's the problem."

"And his privilege," Molly returned.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the truth of this.

They left only a single lamp burning, quietly put on their scarves and coats, then went out and closed the door silently behind them.

Sherlock had sent Mycroft's car away when they'd arrived at John's, and now Molly said, "Let's take the Tube, the stop's not too far, and It's a beautiful evening."

Sherlock looked up at the sky, a patchwork of dark clouds interspersed here and there with glittering stars. "You're sure you won't be too cold?" he asked, then said with some disapproval, "You left your gloves at home."

"That won't matter," she said, and tucked one hand under his arm and stuck the other in the pocket of her coat.

"Hmm," he said, arching a brown. "If I think you're too cold, we're getting a cab."

She laughed, genuinely amused at this suddenly overzealous solicitude, and he could not help giving another crooked grin as they set off, down the pavement.

The evening _was_ beautiful, but Sherlock grew increasingly quiet as they walked along. The weather was similar to that of the previous night, and Molly had a feeling Sherlock was beginning to recall moments of his terrifying time at Musgrave. She thought of asking him if this was the case, but decided against it. His lengthy "confession" of a few hours past had given her quite enough information, and had been painfully, if necessarily, cathartic for Sherlock. It would be better to focus on the future, now, and the positive aspects of it at that. But they were not out of the woods, yet. Molly had no doubt that Sherlock was dreading the coming confrontation with his parents, in spite of the comfort afforded by the change in venue, and when she remarked that Mycroft had certainly been looking well, considering, his reply confirmed her suspicion in no uncertain terms.

"His acting skills are quite adequate to the task of presenting the stiff upper lip, certainly. I'm wondering now if it was entirely wise to ask him to give up the safety of his fortress tomorrow. My mother in particular is likely to take advantage of the fact that he will be deprived of his natural environment and therefore more vulnerable to her wrath."

"Do you think she will be so angry with him? He thought he was doing his best for everyone concerned."

"I expect he did - and yet the whole plan was originally my uncle's. Mycroft always had a regard for Rudy that bordered on hero-worship. I couldn't see it myself, but then Rudy never liked me, and never let me forget it if we happened to meet. He was a cold bastard, in spite of the bizarre predilection for cross-dressing."

"You're joking!" Molly exclaimed.

"Not at all," Sherlock said, blandly. He glanced down at her and said, "You will let me know if these revelations about my family start to put you off, make you rethink your association with me, present and future."

Molly gave an unamused snort. "Your parents are perfectly lovely people, and I have no doubt that you've any number of relatives who are not… "

"Aberrant?"

"Eccentric."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to snort. "It goes far beyond eccentricity, as you must realize from what I've been telling you today. Eurus is both a genius and dangerously psychotic - though she may be beyond expressing either of those at present. She was virtually catatonic when they took her away last night."

Molly squeezed his hand. "Mycroft will see that she is helped."

"Maybe. Yes. Probably, now that the true state of affairs has come to light. And I've ideas of my own on that score. We'll see what our parents have to say about it, when they calm down."

"Yes. What about your uncle, though? You said he died under suspicious circumstances?"

"Yes. A hazard of his particular lifestyle - or possibly lifestyles, plural. Though I think now it is all too likely Euros had something to do with his death. If I am remembering correctly, I believe that Rudy may have had some of the same _eccentricities_ as she. That may have been why he wanted her under his thumb. He had a clearer idea of her capabilities than any of us. Even Mycroft's intelligence pales in comparison, and as for me…" He gave another short laugh. "I could practically be considered the family idiot!"

They were now approaching the entrance to the Maida Vale Tube station, but Molly grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's Belstaff and halted him, suddenly angry. "Stop it, right now!" she hissed up at him, oblivious of other passers-by. "You are no more an idiot than you are a sociopath. You are brilliant in your own right, but more than that you are thoroughly, completely _human_. You were correct when you told me that time that you could have been a Moriarty yourself. But you are not! You're Sherlock Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Good brother, good son, _brilliant_ Consulting Detective, and the best man I know - or ever _will_ know."

He had been staring at her, obviously taken aback by her vehemence, and now he tried to laugh, but it came out oddly strangled. She was close to tears again, and put her arms around him, pulling him into a fierce hug, and to her relief he returned the embrace, and bent his dark head against hers. They held each other like that for a long minute. Then, remembering where they were, they released each other.

Molly groped for a tissue again, and Sherlock watched her, looking both fond and puzzled. He swiped a tear from the corner of his eye and said, "What on earth did I do to deserve you, Molly Hooper?"

" _Everything,_ " she snapped. She blew her nose impatiently, then fixed him with a steely eye. "It's just taken you some time to realize it."

He started to reply to that, abruptly closed his mouth, then said, "No, I don't want to set you off again. Suffice it to say that my eyes have at last been opened. I might just have to marry you, you know."

She gaped, at him, briefly outraged. But then she gathered her wits and said, crisply, "Yes. I am quite sure you should. But suggesting such a thing as we stand outside the Maida Vale Tube stop is the outside of enough."

And he laughed. "You're quite right. Come. Let's go shopping, Dr. Hooper."

Shopping turned out to be an onerous chore. Molly had sketched out a menu, but had not had a chance to finalize it, nor to look up recipes, check for supplies already on hand, or make a shopping list.

"Just get anything you think you might need," Sherlock said when she explained this to him, but by the time they'd wandered Waitrose for an hour and had accumulated a trolley full of items, he was getting very weary of the whole thing. "Probably should have just made a reservation at some restaurant," he muttered.

But she said, "No, this will be far better. You will have privacy, and a homelike atmosphere. It's bound to be more soothing than any restaurant. If things get too heated, you can always escape upstairs, or to the back garden for a few minutes."

"And have a smoke," Sherlock said, brightening. "I'll pick up some Silk Cuts."

However, Waitrose was not a supplier of Silk Cuts, so he had to make due with Dunhills. Also Molly had discovered that the shop was entirely out of saffron, essential for one of her signature dishes.

"Can we make a quick stop at Sainsbury's on the way home?" she asked uncertainly. She peered at him closely and thought he was starting to look very tired.

And indeed, he said, grumpily, "No! I'll text Mycroft, he can pick it up tomorrow."

"But I'll need it at least an hour before we're ready to eat," she said, worriedly.

"I'll tell him to have it there by nine. _And_ anything else we might have discovered we've forgotten. I'm sure there will be something, though you've loaded half the store in the trolley. There _always_ was something forgotten when my mother was cooking. It's a holiday tradition, trying to find a shop that's open late on Christmas Eve to satisfy her requirements."

"Your mother is a wonderful cook, and this will be my first time preparing a meal for her. I'm afraid I do want to try to impress her."

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "Lord, you could serve her a plate of stale doughnuts and she'd still be ready to fall at your feet at the whiff of the possibility of grandchildren. She gave up on Mycroft years ago, and I expect she's considered me a lost cause for ages as well."

Molly felt herself blushing again, and when Sherlock winked at her she couldn't help laughing, too.

However, by the time they returned to Molly's house and got all their purchases arranged and put away, Molly suspected that the production of grandchildren for Mummy was pretty much off the programme for the evening. They were both feeling quite exhausted, and even the pot of tea and the plate of assorted biscuits they shared failed to revive them. They sat there at the counter, side by side, silently sipping, until Sherlock finally muttered, "Don't know why I'm so tired, but… I may have raised expectations that I am now… er… possibly…"

"Unable to fulfill?"

"Not _unable._ But like you and this gourmet extravaganza you have planned for my parents, I did want to try to impress on the first attempt."

Molly gave a snort of laughter and put down her cup. Then she slipped off her seat, put her arms around her weary would-be lover, and set her forehead against his. "Mr. Holmes, I have to be up no later than six a.m. anyway. Let's just go to bed and _sleep_ , shall we?"

He gave a small sigh and replied, "Dr. Hooper, I am entirely of your way of thinking." And he kissed her, very gently.

~.~


	10. 24 Hours Later -or- Molly's Dream

_**~ Twenty-Four Hours Later**_ **-or-** _ **Molly's Dream ~**_

* * *

 **Warning : **this is the only (very short, a 700 word sentence) chapter that has real, if fairly non-explicit, smut. If you object to that, just skip it, you'll be able to figure out what happened when you read the next chapter.

* * *

 **o-o-o**

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* * *

In the soft, black night she gradually becomes aware that she's immersed in an erotic dream, she's had them before, of course, though this one's oddly different, the very _particular_ way he's spooned against her back, murmuring against her ear, how long has he been soothing her with that voice while those beautiful hands, those long, clever fingers have been moving over her, touching her, lightly, curiously, in places they've never ventured, uncovering her secrets, slowly but not tentatively, he seems strangely knowledgeable in fact, his time with that woman ( _he made me wear the hat_ ) not wasted, perhaps, or else he's done his research (books; and John's laptop has its uses), but now he's studying _her_ , taking in every detail and applying the ( _absolutely vital_ ) information with the assurance and thoroughness expected of The World's Only Consulting Detective, for all his professed inexperience, his powers of observation so acute, his every deduction so devastatingly accurate, his ability to utilize facts gleaned from each of her helpless sounds and movements is _driving her_ _mad_ , and finally she can bear no more, if she must drown so must he, and she turns within the warm circle of his arms, and two things happen: she kisses him, fierce and open mouthed, tasting, breathing, and at the same instant reaches down and finds him, impertinent as he's been, nudging provocatively at her backside, and heavens, he's iron sheathed in velvet, how has he managed in such a state, and his groan as she slowly works him (only fair, look what he's done to _her_ ), that groan is utterly _delicious_ , and she hums and smiles as she kisses and teases, smiles because his trademarked composure is evaporating and suddenly his hand's scrabbling at her backside, at the edge of her knickers, roughy drawing them down, the air is briefly cool on her exposed skin until he pushes her over against the pillows, his evident desperation has her close already, she must have him _now_ , and as she hisses sharply, "Wait!" then struggles with her pants after he complies (she can just glimpse the glitter of his eyes in the almost non-existent light) she knows suddenly that this is no dream, though it hardly matters they're so far gone, she frees one foot from her obnoxious undergarment and opens herself to him, pulling him over her, taking him in hand, and there, _there_ , _oh God_ , and she half sobs his name as he enters her, so exactly _right_ , and she reaches up in her blindness and touches his face, reading the ecstasy of this moment with her fingertips, until he turns his head and lightly bites, and then, whispering her name in wonder, he begins to move, carefully at first, then _not_ , and she groans, too, and wraps herself around him, she can't last, not when every slick stroke draws her closer, closer, closer, and she reaches down, between, to feel where they're joined, and that makes him gasp, "Molly! Molly, I _can't_ …" and then it's Enough, then _too much_ , her body arches and she clutches him to her, short nails digging into him, the muscles of his back, his gorgeous arse, the wave breaks and she's lost, her cries sharp, but she's not alone, he tenses, then succumbs with the most devastated noise, the sweetest sound she's ever heard in her life, again… again... and then it's sweeping past, leaving them wrecked and trembling, clinging to each other, and they manage to kiss again as the deep (deeply satisfying) aftershocks continue, fading… she might have slept for a moment, but then he's moving, withdrawing from her as he turns them onto their sides ( _Oh, Loss!_ ), limbs still entwined, and he clumsily hauls the covers over them again, kisses languid as their hearts calm, and she thinks vaguely they should clean up a bit but lacks the will, better to just lie here snug, his arms warm and strong about her while they drift, and she tries to stay awake, to make this moment last, the reality of it sinking into her soul, but it's no use, the tide is rising, steadily pulling her down and under, to dream again, this dream within a dream.

~.~


	11. Preparations

_**~ Preparations ~**_

* * *

It was a beautiful morning. The patchwork clouds of the previous evening had produced a sweet, cleansing rain sometime in the night and Molly's back garden had been sparkling in sunshine when she'd gone out to cut a sheaf of chives for her Spanish Frittata.

A _beautiful_ morning. The thought bubbled up occasionally… fairly often, actually… as she worked in her kitchen - or _played_ , really. Or it would have been playing, if not for the portentous nature of the occasion.

In spite of that, and the need for her to focus on the creation of a brunch suited to the discriminating palates of Sherlock's parents and his brother, she found a smile curving her lips when her thoughts inevitably drifted to that _dream within a dream_ of just a few hours before.

Her contentment was such that she suspected Sherlock would have no trouble seeing it, though the more overt physical evidence of their encounter had been washed away in a much-appreciated morning shower. She was now feeling ready for almost anything. She'd dressed carefully, donning neat navy trousers, sensible shoes, a new, crisply tailored shirt in a blue, green, and white flower print, and at present she was wearing her favorite pinny, white with yellow plaid pockets, inherited from her grandmother and a very functional garment in spite of the old fashioned ruffles at the shoulders and hem. Her navy cardigan was laid over the back of a chair for later, her hair was done up in a tidy braided bun, and she had even applied a touch of make-up - lip gloss, and a touch of mascara, only, as her skin had seemed to glow when she'd studied herself in the mirror over the sink, her cheeks pink with good health and happiness.

There was apparently a great deal to be said in favor of dreamlike debauchery in the darkness of the pre-dawn hours with Sherlock Holmes. .

Her partner in sin had still been sound asleep when she'd finished dressing and quietly slipped from the bedroom at just half six. Now, at nearly eight, she knew she would have to go awaken him if he did not soon rouse on his own.

However, a few minutes after the hour, he silently entered the kitchen like some dissipated wraith, his eyes both dazed and a bit wary, bare of foot and decadently disheveled, his hair wild, his blue dressing gown loose over his rumpled and slightly stained undergarments.

"Good morning," Molly said, keeping the laughter in her voice to a minimum. "Are you alright?"

He frowned at her. "That… _wasn't_ a dream. Was it?"

She fought down a grin. "The evidence would suggest not, I believe. I'll put fresh sheets on the bed later, though. We're having brunch with your parents in less than _two hours_. _And_ Mycroft."

He winced at the painful reminder, but then peered at her closely. "You… you're alright? You seem remarkably…"

"I'm excellent, thank you."

"Then… it was…"

"Mmm… extraordinary?"

It was strange for him to be at a loss for words, but then it was a strange morning, all around.

He considered her adjective. "Extraordinary… in the _good_ way?"

Her brows rose. "Well… yes. In the best possible way."

His uncertain expression finally eased. "You thought so, too? I mean… it seemed to me... " His voice trailed off, some color rising in his pale cheeks. "You're certain you don't have time to… ah…"

"Go back to bed with you?" she exclaimed, and when he nodded, a fatuous smile on his face, she threw up her hands. " _No!_ Your parents will be here in _two hours_ \- and Mycroft in one, hopefully. Did you text him about the saffron?"

"No, not yet," he said, obviously disappointed. "Where's my mobile?"

"On the coffee table, where you left it last night," she said, walking around the peninsula toward him. "And ask him to bring some flowers for the table, too, will you?" Only her eyes laughed as she gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. "And then go take a bath! You'll feel much more the thing, believe me."

He reached up and fingered the edge of the ruffle at her shoulder. "You don't look like someone who was ravished a few hours ago."

She chuckled. "I assure you, I've been like a cat in cream all morning, and going back to bed with you will not help in the least!"

He smiled slowly, his eyes alight. "Later, then?"

"Later," she agreed. But then he bent and kissed her lips with such tender sensuality that it was almost enough to make her change her mind. She pulled herself together with some effort and said, "Go! You're distracting me and I still have a great deal to do!"

He sniffed. "As I told you, all we have to do is let my mother get wind that a grandchild may be in the offing and she won't care what she's served. Dad, too." He looked suddenly conscious. "You… er… did note the lack of… _protection_."

"Yes, of course."

"And you haven't been on the pill since you broke with… ah…"

"Tom?"

"Yes. Him." A hint of disapprobation crossed his face, but then his brow wrinkled and he asked, " _Why_ haven't you?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You know why."

He raised a brow. "Do I?"

"Make a deduction, Mr. Holmes," she said, somewhat acidly.

But instead of looking smug, he looked a bit horrified. "Would you have been content if we had remained… just friends?"

 _Just friends_. The thought was a painful one, now, even with it being a thing of the past. "I… I had made up my mind to that. Yes."

He carefully gathered her close and kissed her cheek, and said in her ear, "I was such an idiot."

She laughed a little, and returned the kiss, and said, "Yes. It was a close run thing."

"Yes." He let her go and gazed down at her, longingly.

She cleared her throat. "Two hours? Mycroft?"

He rolled his eyes. "Mycroft can bloody well wait on our convenience."

But he turned with a sigh and went into the living room to send the necessary text, then went back upstairs, and presently she could hear the shower running.

 **o-o-o**

When he next appeared, half an hour later, he was much more himself again, in a sober suit of charcoal grey with a white shirt, his wild curls once again thoroughly tamed. The light of that sharp intelligence was back in his eyes, enhanced by a twinkle of amusement at the sight of her gazing upon him with obvious pleasure.

"Told you we should have gone back to bed," he said smugly, kissing her on the cheek. "What's that you're making?"

"Ensaïmadas. It's a type of Spanish breakfast bread. There will be a frittata, and a shrimp soup, a salad, and asparagus. And a tropical fruit salad to end with."

"Good lord. Are you feeding an army?"

"No! But when Mycroft took me to your parents' home for tea that time, at least half the dishes were homemade. Your mother is an excellent baker."

"Yes, well. She was a maths graduate student when she met my father, and baking is fairly scientific in nature. Basically, it's applied chemistry."

"Very true, which is why _you're_ such a good cook, Mr. Graduate Chemist," she teased.

But he just shrugged. "Not really my area."

"Fish and chips, and Weetabix are more in your line?"

"Well, if _I'm_ cooking, yes. If _you're_ doing it…"

"Well, you can help with this, at least. Here, put this on and you can get the asparagus prepped for me." Trying not to smirk, she handed him another apron, a less frilly one, but red in color and emblazoned with the phrase _Kiss the Cook_.

"I am not wearing this when Mycroft arrives," he said, but began to put it on without further protest.

"Oh, you'll be done with the asparagus in plenty of time. Let me tie that for you and then I'll show you what to do."

He was, naturally enough, a quick learner, but the pile of asparagus was quite extensive and he was just finishing up with the last of it when a knock sounded on the front door a few minutes after nine. "Sorry, as I said…" He reached behind him to pull at the apron strings, but then exclaimed, "Molly, they're stuck - knotted or something! Did you do that on purpose?"

"No!" Molly laughed, washing her hands off quickly and going to his rescue. "Oh, why did you pull it so tight? Hold still, this will take a minute!"

The sound of the door opening came to their ears, and then Mycroft's voice as he called, "Hello?"

"Just _cut_ the strings!" Sherlock said, desperately.

" _No!_ I almost have it. _Hold still!_ " And then, a few seconds later, it was done. "There!"

He whipped off the apron, but not before Mycroft had appeared in the doorway, with Lady Alicia Smallwood standing beside him. Lady Alicia gave a small snort of laughter.

Sherlock cursed under his breath and straightened his suit jacket. "Just barging in, Mycroft? Hello, Alicia."

"Good morning," Lady Smallwood said, still amused.

Mycroft said, "The door was unlocked, and I presumed you were too busy to answer - an accurate presumption, obviously. The apron was a nice touch."

Molly came forward to take the grocery bag Mycroft was carrying. "Your brother has been a great deal of help in prepping the asparagus for me. Thank you so much for stopping for the flowers and saffron."

Alicia held up a bottle. "We've brought some Cava, too, in keeping with the Spanish theme."

"Thank you!" Molly said, taking the bottle as well. "Sherlock's parents went to Spain for a week last year and I thought they'd enjoy the reminder of good times."

"Very good point," Mycroft said with approval.

And Sherlock gave her a smile and said to Mycroft, "Sometimes I think she's smarter than either of us."

"Certainly she has far less baggage to see around when it comes to our parents," Mycroft agreed.

"Right!" Molly said, briskly. "Speaking of which, they will be here in less than an hour, and for everyone's peace of mind it would be best if all is as ready as possible, are we agreed?"

Sherlock said, "Ye-es," but hesitantly.

"Excellent. You and Mycroft can go set the table in the dining area - everything is on the sideboard, table cloth, plates, napkins - and then if you would see that the table and chairs in the back garden are dry and ready for use if necessary. Alicia, do you think you can arrange these flowers for me?"

"Yes, of course," Lady Smallwood said, smiling at the twin expressions of consternation on the Holmes brothers' faces. "I'm very good at arranging flowers."

"I, however," said Mycroft primly, "have not had occasion to set a table since I left day school."

"Don't worry," said Sherlock, "I remember how to do it. Would you care to wear the pinny?" He offered the red apron to his brother.

But Lady Smallwood took it instead, saying, "He won't need it for that, as you know perfectly well, but I can use it in here while I help Molly. Get to work, now, both of you. Chop-chop!'

Resigned to their fate, the brothers left the kitchen.

Molly grinned at Alicia and said quietly, "Well done!"

And Alicia smiled back. "Yes, wasn't it? Now, where are your clippers and a vase?"

 **o-o-o**

Molly was just putting the last touches on the food, sieving some confectioner's sugar over the cooling ensaïmadas, when Sherlock came back into the kitchen a few minutes before ten o'clock.

"They're here," he said grimly, obviously nervous. "Just pulled up in the car Mycroft sent. Do you want to take off your pinny and come to the door with me?"

"Yes, of course I will," she said, wiping her hands. She turned around and he swiftly untied the bow. She slipped it off as she went around the peninsula and quickly switched it for her blue cardigan. Once she'd got the cardigan on, she turned to Sherlock. "Do I look alright?"

A light came into his eyes, and a little crooked smile to his lips. He caught her shoulders and kissed her firmly. Then he said, softly, and very sincerely, "Thank you."

She felt her cheeks growing pink. "It's… I… I love you," she said, simply.

He kissed her again, and said, "I love you, too." He straightened. "Now. Into battle?"

"Well, not precisely. Everything will be fine!"

"When they calm down."

"Yes." She gave a tiny grimace.

Sherlock nodded.

He took her hand, and led her from the kitchen.

Everything was ready. The dining area, off to the side of the living room, glowed with a pristine white table cloth, Molly's best china and flatware, and with the artfully arranged flowers.

Mycroft hovered near the table, a stoic non-expression on his face, and Alicia was standing beside him, looking concerned.

And then there came the faint sound of familiar voices, followed by a sharp rap on the front door that made all four of them blench, quite as though the cheerful sound was the very voice of doom.

~.~


	12. A Stratagem

_**~ A Stratagem ~**_

* * *

Molly, with Sherlock at her back, opened the front door. She smiled in spite of her nerves, for she was genuinely fond of Millicent and Vernet Holmes, the astonishing couple who'd produced three of the most exceptional beings on the planet. Astonishing - and yet the soul of kindness. Some of her previous meetings with them came forcibly to mind - tea in their comfortable back garden, discussing her part in Sherlock's "fall" and all of them grieving over the many distressing aspects of the situation; that long, frank conversation she'd had with Millicent in the canteen of the hospital where Sherlock lay a few floors above, struggling to recover from the bullet Mary had put into him. Oh, God. They had been through so much in the last few years, all of them, but particularly these good-natured, intelligent people standing on her front porch, and now she wanted nothing more than to throw protective arms about the two of them and spare them this additional pain, which lay like a terrible shadow over the occasion.

However, both Sherlock and Mycroft were counting on her, and to fail them would be unthinkable. She therefore said, "Hello! I'm so happy to see you again. Please, do come in!"

"It's good to see you, too, dear," Millicent Holmes exclaimed brightly and immediately embraced her. Then she favored Sherlock with a shrewd, speaking glance. "And you're looking well, my son. Ah! _Sons,_ " she corrected, having spied Mycroft. "And Alicia! Good heavens, I believe this is quite unprecedented! Are _both_ my confirmed bachelors set to grant my fondest wish and settle down?"

"Now, Mother," Vernet chided amiably, "don't tease the boys. These things have their season."

"Season!" Millicent gave a mirthless snort of laughter. "It may still be mid-summer with Sherlock, but Mycroft's autumnal equinox is peeking round the corner." She gave her already exasperated elder son an amused simper before continuing, "No, very well, I won't say another word. And, indeed, it's lovely to see you again, Alicia."

"Thank you, Millicent," Lady Smallwood said, though her tone was wryly amused.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft permitted their mother to embrace them, each betraying only a minimum of awkwardness, and then Molly said, "Brunch is almost ready, but let's go into the kitchen and pour some drinks, shall we?"

"Whatever the doctor orders," Vernet agreed, and added, jovially,. "It's after noon somewhere!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes a bit, but Sherlock's groan was cut short by a nudge from Molly's elbow. She gave both him and his brother a swift _look_. This was not the time for displays of undutiful sarcasm.

Sherlock's lips quirked against a smile, but Mycroft only sighed, looking as depressed as she'd ever seen him.

However, he and his brother perked up considerably as Molly led the way into the kitchen where an inviting display of libations and glasses had been set out on a side table.

"I'll have a Mimosa," said Millicent. "Light on the orange juice, if you please. I understand that we're here because there is news to impart, and I suspect it's not only the fact that my youngest has at last come to his senses in your regard, Molly. Though… do tell me he's not merely imposing upon you again because of the damage to 221B?"

Vernet said, rather apologetically, "We did go by your flat last evening, Sherlock, when we got into town. Wanted to say hello to Martha Hudson, at least - but obviously she is away, too, while repairs are going on. What happened? Everyone's alright?"

"We're all fine," Sherlock said, evenly. "It was… someone's idea of a joke, actually."

"A joke?!" Millicent exclaimed. "That's outrageous!"

"It was a warning," Mycroft said. "And to get us out of the house. But the… ah… trickster _wanted_ to be apprehended. And was. Now it's just a matter of waiting on repairs."

"But you are correct," Sherlock put in, accepting a flute of Segura Viudas Cava from Molly. "I _have_ come to my senses in Molly's regard, as I believe was implied in that text I sent you yesterday."

"Yes," said Millicent, sipping her Mimosa and looking at her youngest in some wonder. "I did as you requested by the way."

Sherlock smiled, and then gave Molly a haughty _none of your business_ look.

Molly, tamping down the odd thrill that had shot through her at this interchange between Sherlock and his mother, merely shook her head and said, evenly,. "Very well, keep your secrets. But come help me put brunch on the table, will you? It's all ready, I just need to pop the frittata under the broiler for a couple of minutes."

Everyone helped, actually, and before many minutes had passed they were all sitting down to what Millicent termed a veritable feast.

"Molly, you've outdone yourself!" she said, surveying the dishes on offer. "It's all lovely! Just like Spain, but better, with a touch of England."

Molly laughed. "Thank you! I do hope you like it."

"How could we help it?" Vernet smiled. "One can see you've put a great deal of love into it."

"Speaking of which," put in his wife, "let's have a toast. To Molly and Sherlock's… ah… what? Liaison?"

And Sherlock actually grinned at this. "That'll do for the moment. And it has a pleasingly illicit ring about it, too." He raised his glass, his eyes warm as he met Molly's.

She knew she was blushing as she raised her own glass, but that only seemed to add to the perfection of the moment.

 **o-o-o**

They took their time eating, and conversation remained cheerful and general - Sherlock's parents had a great many stories to tell of their visit to Spain, and of their most recent journey to the U.S. - but eventually forks were laid down and the last of the wine was poured out, and things became rather quiet.

Millicent finally seemed to gather herself and turned to Sherlock. "So. Is your friend Lestrade looking into catching this _trickster_ that's destroyed your flat yet again? It's not one of Moriarty's associates, is it? Perhaps the same who created that broadcast? Wasn't it Moriarty who was responsible for the destruction last time?"

Sherlock had set down his glass and now seemed to be staring at the dregs of his wine, but he gave a nod and said, carefully, "Yes. It was the building across the street that was the direct target that time, of course. But the message was for me."

Vernet frowned, distressed. "The man was nothing short of a monster. There were quite a number of people killed that time, were there not?"

"Yes, a few, and twelve more in another bombing a couple of days later. Moriarty is dead, now, however. But this current… _trickster_ … was… not an associate. Not an _underling_ , at least. More an old friend."

Millicent said, "So they were connected?"

Sherlock finally looked up at his parents. Glanced at Mycroft, but saw that his elder brother was not yet ready to speak.

Beneath the table, he caught up Molly's hand, and she gave his a quick, encouraging squeeze.

Visibly calmed, he went on. "They _were_ connected. The trickster was, and is once again, an inmate of what had been assumed to be a highly secure facility on a small island off the coast, called Sherrinford. But she - this trickster is a woman - managed to compromise every safeguard and, in various disguises, traveled about for months, arranging… tests? Pleas for help? In any case, _incidents_ that brought her perforce to our attention - mine, and John Watson's, and ultimately Mycroft's. When my flat was blown up, we were aware of her identity, for she had informed John of it the previous day, before shooting him with a tranquilizer dart - Xylazine, I would think, from the effects. She had been acting as his new therapist for weeks, after having killed the real one."

"Good God!" Millicent exclaimed.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, blandly. "Mycroft, John, and I traveled to Sherrinford to investigate and remedy the situation, but were caught in her web and forced to undergo a series of experiments which explored situational morality and emotional context. Five persons died in the course of these experiments."

"My God!" Vernet muttered. "Sherlock, I know you have been the nemesis of many… er… _scions of the underworld._ But this almost surpasses belief!"

And Millicent added, "It's like one of those horrible movies out of Hollywood. And yet you say it's the truth? How on earth do you manage to attract such _evil!_ "

But now Mycroft spoke. "It is not evil _per se_ , in this case. The… the trickster suffers from a severe form of psychosis, and has done nearly all her life. She killed a young boy when she was a mere child herself. Burned her family's home. Then, placed in an institution for treatment and safety, she managed to set fire to that building as well, resulting in a number of injuries and deaths. It was your brother, my uncle, who installed her in Sherrinford, and there she has been held in secret these many years.

"I… there is no easy way to put this to either of you, but… our sister Eurus is the trickster of which we've been speaking. Eurus is alive."

~.~


	13. Blast Zone

_**~ Blast Zone ~  
** With many thanks to arianedevere on LJ and Dreamwidth for her invaluable transcript of The Final Problem._

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stared at their elder son, first in disbelief and then in dawning horror.

" _Alive?_ " Millicent finally exclaimed. "Eurus is _alive?_ Has been alive for all these years? How is that even possible?"

Mycroft's wince at his mother's tone was not quite imperceptible. "What Uncle Rudy began ... I thought it best to continue."

His mother was not pleased with this, to say the least. "I'm not asking _how_ you did it, idiot boy! I'm asking _how could you?_ "

"I was… trying to be kind."

 _"Kind?_ " Millicent gave a gasp, almost as though she was in physical pain, then repeated, tearfully, " _Kind?_ We were told that our daughter was _dead!_ "

Sherlock was staring at the table in front of him. Molly squeezed his hand hard, and he returned it, flashing her a sidelong glance that she met with one intended to convey _Courage!_

Mycroft replied, "It seemed… better _that_ than tell you what she had become."

His mother only stared at him in wordless disbelief.

"I'm sorry," he said, simply.

But now Vernet spoke, less unrestrained than his wife, but in obvious distress for all that. "Whatever she became, whatever she is now, Mycroft, she remains our daughter."

"And my sister," Mycroft said, looking up at his father - and his mother. Trying to let them see that he, too, had been hurt by the situation.

Molly's eyes stung with tears, but this was not the time to let them fall.

Millicent's gaze was stony. "You should have done better."

But now Sherlock spoke, saying quietly, "He did his best."

His mother turned to him and snapped, "Then he's very limited."

Sherlock said no more, but met Mycroft's gaze across the table.

Molly squeezed Sherlock's hand again, and bit her lip.

Vernet asked, "Where is Eurus?"

"Back in Sherrinford," Mycroft replied. "Secure, this time." He looked at his father intently: a plea for understanding. "People have died. And without doubt she will kill again if she has the opportunity. There's no possibility she'll ever be able to leave that place."

His father took this in, but then asked firmly, "When can we see her?"

Mycroft looked almost despairing. "There's no point."

Millicent exclaimed, in a voice both furious and full of contempt, "How _dare_ you say that?"

"She won't talk," Mycroft said, impatiently. Desperately. "After Musgrave - that's where it all ended, with Dr. Watson nearly drowning, as Victor did - it was just as we all suspected! Sherlock can show you the place. But now… she won't communicate in any way. She has passed beyond our view. Words cannot reach her."

Millicent glared at Mycroft, then turned to Sherlock, and demanded - pleaded - "Well? Sherlock, you were always the grown-up, in spite of your brother's high opinion of himself. Tell us: what do we do now?"

Sherlock exchanged another look with Mycroft. Their mother could hardly have chosen more painful words to put Mycroft in his place. For the most part they were untrue, and they all knew it. But Sherlock ignored that side issue - the unreasoned words of a mother who had once again been wrenched from her comfortable world by her difficult and all too often extremely problematic offspring. He said, slowly, "I have been thinking about this, and I believe I may have an idea."

Molly felt another thrill course through her and she sat up a little straighter. To her delight, Sherlock gave her hand another squeeze and glanced at her, a tiny smile curving his lips. She vowed to snog him senseless at the first opportunity, but in the meantime sat back and watched as he addressed them all, but in particular his devastated parents.

"Music," he said. "When I was at Sherrinford, in those first few minutes, Eurus had me play the violin for her. Even those brief passages seemed to speak to her in ways that mere words could not."

Molly's brief elation faded. She saw where this was leading, and the hope she'd felt turned to a chill of fear. But Sherlock kept hold of her hand and went on.

"Her experiments were aimed at me, for the most part. I remember now, her attachment to me when we were children, and her jealousy of Victor. Not that those are excuses for what she has done. But I believe if I were to go back to Sherrinford, and initiate communication through music-"

"That might work!"

It was Alicia Smallwood who had spoken so vehemently, and everyone suddenly looked at her.

A flush touched her pale cheeks, but she said, evenly, "I play, too, you see - the piano. And music, and playing the instrument particularly, seems to be the only thing that gives me complete solace in times of great stress."

Molly recalled that Alicia Smallwood had been involved in the Magnussen affair somehow, and that she had lost her husband to suicide when a scandal had broken in one of that monstrous man's publications.

And Sherlock nodded, doubtless understanding Alicia's point even more completely than did Molly. "Exactly so," he said. "If I were able to communicate with Eurus on that almost visceral level, she might eventually be persuaded to open herself to other relationships."

Millicent, now forgetting her anger, turned to Mycroft. "Can that be arranged? Do you think there's a chance?"

Mycroft, eyeing his little brother with that odd look of respect again, said, "I… I hope so. It does seem to me that if anything has a chance of success it would be that sort of approach."

Sherlock said, specifically to Molly and his mother, "I want to try, though we will, of course, be sure to take suitable precautions."

And, back on more familiar ground, Mycroft added, confidently, "A new security protocol is already in place, and will be adjusted as the situation progresses."

Millicent's lips trembled, now, and finally her tears began to fall, and a small sob escaped her.

Molly rose swiftly, Sherlock releasing her hand as though already knowing what she intended. She went round the table and said to Millicent, "Let's go out to the back garden for a few minutes, shall we?"

And to Molly's relief, Millicent merely nodded and managed to rise. Molly led her from the room, picking up the box of tissues as they passed through the kitchen.

 **o-o-o**

"I can't believe it," were Millicent's first words when she had finally calmed enough to speak intelligibly.

She and Molly were seated side by side on the white cast iron bench that was situated under an arbor of Blush Noisette roses in the corner of the little back garden, a private sanctuary that had been one of Molly's first additions to her home when she had moved in a few years before. It was a good place for tears, whether of grief or of happiness, as Molly knew from experience.

Millicent took another tissue from the box and blew her nose again. Then she looked at Molly. "She was the most beautiful little girl. It… it was heartbreaking when her… her condition became… untenable. "

Molly only nodded. She said, slowly, "I have nothing but admiration for the recovery you and your husband made in the face of such a situation."

Millicent gave a sad little chuckle. "What else could we do? It… it did eventually become easier. But that Rudy, and then Mycroft could do such a thing. Deceiving us all these years, and with such an unspeakably cruel lie!"

"I know Mycroft thought it for the best - and particularly with Sherlock's situation in mind."

"Yes, there was that to consider," Millicent said, sadly. "My poor boy. And… I have to admit, Mycroft has always had Sherlock's best interests at heart. He… well, we let Mycroft take on a great deal in that regard. When Sherlock went off to university. At too young an age, of course - but what were we to do? He was bored nearly senseless at school. Extreme intelligence is not conducive to happiness, Molly. At least… sometimes."

Molly smiled a little. "I know. But… I think it is not unrealistic to hope that there may be better times ahead."

Millicent gave her a narrow look. "Then you and he… that was not a merely a stratagem to soften the blow? You are… _together_?"

Molly's smile grew far less tentative. "We are! I… well, I'm sure you don't want too many details."

"Of course I do!" Millicent exclaimed, and smiled too, for the first time.

Molly couldn't help chuckling at that, but she said, "I'm fairly certain Sherlock would prefer I didn't share just everything with you, but… I love him so much. And I believe he's loved me for a long time, too, but… it was complicated. But now… it's just possible… well, we'll have to see but… you may yet be a grandparent."

And Millicent laughed aloud in joy at that, and then hugged Molly rather fiercely. "Oh, that wretched boy, to keep you waiting for so long! Keeping _all_ of us waiting. But if such a wonderful thing does indeed come to pass, I promise Vernet and I will be here to help as much as we can."

Molly could not help being both amused and alarmed as she thought of Sherlock's probable reaction to this prospect. As for herself, however, there were no qualms at all on that score – Rosie Watson, darling that she was, had taught her godmother well. Therefore, as the hug eased, Molly clasped Millicent's hand, looked into her kind eyes, and said fondly, "Believe me, I'm counting on it!"

~.~


	14. In the Garden

_**~ In the Garden ~**_

* * *

"Better now?" came a familiar and much-loved voice, and both Molly and Millicent looked up to find Sherlock coming toward them.

Millicent rose to her feet as he approached, and for once Sherlock did not balk at being embraced. Molly smiled her approval, and he returned the smile, though it seemed a bittersweet expression.

Millicent eventually ended it, but then took him by the shoulders and peered at him closely. "You're certain you are alright? She didn't harm you? Any of you?"

"Physically we're quite intact, though John may get a head cold out of it. He was stuck in that well for hours. But having it all out in the open will be for the best. Even Mycroft knows that."

"Mycroft," Millicent repeated, and sighed. "I suppose you were right. He _was_ trying to spare us - though Rudy's motives were likely less pure. I always felt Mycroft was more influenced by Rudy than was good for him."

"I have to agree with you on that point," Sherlock said. "I never liked my uncle, I'm sorry to say."

"You've no need to be sorry for anything," Millicent said with conviction. "Although I do think you owe _Molly_ a great deal. She assures me that announcement about the two of you was not a merely a plan to distract me from the less happy reason for this visit, and I sincerely hope for your sake she was correct."

"I promise you, she was – which reminds me." He lifted a brow. "Did you bring it?"

"Yes, of course." His mother reached into the left pocket of her trousers and brought out a small blue velvet pouch with silken drawstrings. She handed it to her son with a mischievous twinkle. "Your grandmother would be extremely pleased." She glanced at Molly and said, "I'll leave the two of you alone for a few minutes. I must see Mycroft and… well, not _apologize_. Clarify matters, I suppose."

"He does try very hard," Molly said, unable to help feeling sympathy for the eldest son of such a family, as well as for his mother.

Millicent nodded. "He always did," she said, and directed a somewhat pointed parting glance at Sherlock.

They watched Millicent go back into the house, and then Sherlock turned to Molly. "Well, that went off better than I'd hoped, thanks to you."

Molly shook her head. "All of us did our best. It was - _is_ \- a dreadful situation. Do you really think Eurus will respond to your playing?"

"I think she might. It's worth a try, at any rate." He studied her narrowly. "Molly… you do understand that I have to try to reach her? I promise you, I will be careful."

Molly tried to smile. "I… I can't help worrying about you," she said simply.

He took her hand. "Come and sit here with me a moment." He took in the ornate bench with its overarching plethora of roses. "An appropriately romantic setting for a proposal."

"Are you going to propose to me again?" she said with a chuckle as she sat down. "It does seem a more appropriate spot than the Maida Vale tube stop."

He sat down beside her. "Well, I thought our understanding was more or less a given, considering all that has passed between us these last two days, let alone the previous six years. But if you'd like I can arrange something even more formal, perhaps when we've shopped for a set of rings?"

This prosaic speech inspired both tears and laughter, and Molly threw her arms about him for a moment - reveling in the way he returned the embrace and kissed the top of her head. Then she pushed away, swiped a tear from her cheek, and said, "You are an impossible man, and I had no idea I could love someone so very much."

He smiled, bittersweet again. "The feeling is, as you now know, entirely mutual. It quite terrifies me."

She knew what he meant. Accepting the joy of love meant accepting the possibility - really the certainty - of anguish. She took up his hand and said, "I know," then drew that beloved hand to her lips.

But he pulled his hand away and took her in his arms and kissed her properly this time, and only broke off to slip his arms beneath her and pull her onto his lap.

She reached up and caressed his cheek, then closed her eyes as their lips met again. She had waited so long… too long… and now could not get enough of him.

Apparently he was of the same mind for after a bit he moved to run kisses across her cheek, then murmured against her ear, "Can't we go back to bed yet?"

She laughed, and sat back a bit to look at him. "Is that what you'd like? At this moment?"

"God, yes!" he exclaimed. "Let Mycroft and Alicia deal with my parents. At least for now. They've taken up far too much of our morning as it is."

"Well, fortunately for you, I believe your mother is very perceptive about that sort of thing."

He gave a grimace of exasperation. "Yes, you're right. My father, too. They've always been embarrassingly _frisky_ for a couple that one might presume to have reached an age of discretion and sobriety."

"Oh, dear!" Molly said, trying subdue her amusement. "You really are doomed to disappointment on that score. They have so many virtues, but not those, I'm afraid."

"No, I suppose not. But on the other hand, my mother has an excellent memory. I sent her a text yesterday morning, before they left for London, and she brought this for me to give to you."

He'd reached into his pocket and now handed her the tiny blue velvet bag his mother had given him. She opened it and carefully drew out a gold ring, a beautiful, old fashioned scrollwork setting with a small but very fine square-cut ruby in the center, flanked by two tiny diamonds. "Oh! Sherlock, it's lovely! And it was your grandmother's?"

"Yes. I always liked the ring, and my mother told me when I was a boy that I could have it if ever I found a woman I intended to marry. Ha! Never thought that would happen - though I did imagine you wearing the ring years ago. It came to me in a dream, I think, before I returned to England and found you already engaged. I remember your cherry patterned jumper featuring in it-I may have been a bit out of it for some reason. Not drugs!" he said quickly. "Or, none I _chose_ to take, at least."

Molly stared at him, aghast.

"Now don't look like that! That was ages ago."

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, close to tears at the thought of what he might have gone through in those years he'd spent destroying Moriarty's web - and it seemed to her now that she had betrayed both him and herself in becoming involved with another man. "Y-you really thought of me when you were away? In… in _that_ way?"

He gave a short laugh. "That was all that kept me alive at a couple of points!" But then he said, dismayed, "No, now really, don't _cry!_ "

But she couldn't help it. She leaned against him, clutching the lapel of his suit jacket, and wept into his shoulder. He scolded her for her sudden weakness, but very gently, and held her as though she were something precious as he did so. He also thoughtfully pried the ring from her hand and traded it for the box of tissues, which had fortunately been left on the bench.

It was some minutes before she was at all recovered. It was not an easy matter to quell the ghosts of the past, and the present-the events of this day–these two days, and nights-had rendered her surprisingly weary.

She did manage it, finally, and sat up and blew her nose once more. Then she gave a watery chuckle and said, "I'm sorry. I don't seem to have much fortitude left." She looked up then, rather shy and ashamed of herself, and to her delight his smile blurred before her eyes and he kissed her again.

A tender kiss, but with a latent passion underlying his whole aspect. "Oh!" she whispered at one point, when he paused for a half second, but then was swept away again. By the time he ended it, she felt almost light-headed. "You may be right," she murmured.

"About what?"

"About going back to bed."

"Of course I'm right," he said, smugly. "We'll both need a long nap. _Afterwards_."

And she laughed aloud at that, in joy and wonder.

He grinned and then said, "Give me your hand."

There was no implied _please_.

He knew she was his. She had been for a very long time. And now… now he would claim her. The thought piqued her feminist sensibilities. Her _amour propre_.

And yet… she could deny him nothing.

She sat up and disengaged her arm, which had been tight around his back, and solemnly gave him her left hand.

He took it, and slipped the ring on, carefully. Looking at it in all its perfection, he said, in a quiet voice, "It's not your engagement ring, obviously. More a simple acknowledgement of… of what lies between us. But I wanted you to have it right away. To have something meaningful. A symbol of my promise to you, and… my hope." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressed her fingers briefly to his cheek, then raised his eyes to hers with a small sigh, as though quite resigned to his fate. "I love you, Molly. You don't mind me saying it so often, do you?"

She slid her hand up and around, and drew him close. "I will _never_ mind you saying it," she replied, her breath soft against his lips, just before they kissed again.

~.~


	15. Perfection

_**~ Perfection ~**_

* * *

 _The extremely fluffy epilogue. The photo at the very end can be viewed on AO3 where I am also geekmama. Many thanks to everyone who's read and left reviews!_

* * *

She had been lying there in bed with her eyes closed, swimming up from some unfathomable depth of slumber with surprising difficulty. Her muzzy brain shied away from some of the less comfortable aspects of the previous few days. It slowly focused, instead, on simpler things.

Physical sensation: the comfort of her familiar bed; the quiet, though she could tell it was long after break of day; the scent of the sheets- and of Sherlock. His breath was deep and even as he lay warm and sold against her back, his arm heavy round her waist, his hand curved possessively over her breast.

She was aware of an odd and somewhat nebulous sense of well-being - undeniable, if not entirely logical in the face of… everything..

After the most stressful brunch in the history of mankind had ended and the guests dispersed, the remainder of the day had truly been golden. She and Sherlock had, indeed, gone immediately back to bed, and had spent hours napping and making love by turns. Dinner (Chinese, delivered) and a quiet evening had followed… but then had come the _night._

It had been nothing short of astonishing. A shiver ran through her, and a kind of ache assailed her as she recalled, however imperfectly, various moments... and then the last of it…. the intensity of it… the sounds of their cries… the way she had felt after it was over, body and soul... as though she were burnt to ash.

That he could do such a thing to her… make her feel that way… that he was capable of it, even with it being new to him...

She had expected him to be a fast learner, but he would kill her at this rate.

But what a way to go, she could not help thinking, and grinned at the cliché, stifling a giggle, even as she opened her eyes, almost ready to face the world again.

The clock on the nightstand read 9:23.

She lay there for a few more minutes, trying to decide whether to attempt to slip from the bed and shuffle off to the loo (she had not yet tested her theory, but she was fairly certain there would be some residual soreness - not entirely unpleasant, of course), or merely settle in and try to go back to sleep for an hour. She had just decided on the latter when there came the sound of her doorbell ringing in the distance, and then a sharp sequence of raps.

Sherlock, who had seemed dead to the world a moment earlier, had frozen and gave a kind of gasp at these noises, and before they'd even died away he growled, " _What the devil!_ ", abruptly released her, and got out of bed, staggering almost drunkenly as he reached for his dressing gown.

She'd turned onto her back and half sat up, saying worriedly, "What is it? Do we _have_ to answer it? Maybe it's just a delivery from Amazon or… or something. They can leave it on the porch."

"Maybe," he said, but warily, his expression wide awake and very sharp.

As he turned from her and strode toward the bedroom door, she scrambled up from the bed, groaning inwardly as yes, there was _considerable_ residual soreness, grabbed her own dressing gown and threw it on over her nakedness as she scuttled after him, out and down the stairs.

They reached the front door at approximately the same time as he had paused to first peer furtively out the window. He turned to her and said, quietly, "They've driven off, whoever _they_ are, but it looks like there _is_ something on the front porch. Let me open it. You stand back."

She nodded, and backed away slightly, clutching her hands together. He unlocked the door, very quietly, opened it with great stealth, and peeked out. Then gave a groan and opened the door wider.

"What is is?" she demanded, coming closer, close enough to see what was out there: an enormous vase of pink, long stemmed roses, at least two dozen of them; a large brown box with a pink envelope attached to the outside of it, and another cardboard box in a configuration Molly recognized with a thrill: a cat carrier. "Oh! Oh, what is _this_?"

"Molly, you'd better let me open-" But Sherlock's words were interrupted by a tiny _Meow!_ and a scrabbling sound, as of tiny claws against the cardboard interior. "Oh," Sherlock said, disconsolately.

But Molly gasped and knelt swiftly and opened the top of the carrier. The most adorable pure white Persian kitten with blue eyes and a blue bow to match stared up at her for a long moment before repeating that tiny plea: _Meow!_ "Oh, you darling!" she exclaimed joyously, and reaching in, scooped the kitten up into her hands. She held it close, petting the little head with one finger.

" _Molly!_ " Sherlock almost whined.

Molly laughed and looked up at him. "Open the envelope, there, on the box!"

"Probably from Mycroft," he muttered, but did as she said, and then exclaimed "Bloody Hell!" as he took in the note.

"Was it Mycroft?"

"And Andrea. I think it was she that noticed your catless state when they brought that team to search the flat the day before yesterday. Mycroft paid for all of this, of course. There's a bloody pedigree here, too. It's a boy: Hobbes out of Catalan and Marigold. Hobbes? He's not tiger-striped!"

"He's brilliant, and that's quite enough" Molly said happily. "Can you bring everything in? We'll see what's in the box, and maybe you can put the roses… up in the bedroom? That's where we've been, mostly."

"Well, _that's_ at an end, now you've got Toby the second here."

She looked up at him quickly. "Do you… Sherlock, do you really mind so much? He won't be any trouble!"

He looked extremely conflicted for a moment, and then blurted, "I wanted a _dog!_ "

Molly laughed. "We can get a dog, too! But Mycroft probably didn't want to usurp your right to choose a breed, Dogs are different."

"They certainly are," he muttered, and proceeded to move all the gifts from the porch into the foyer.

Once he'd closed the door, however, Molly said, "Here, you take Hobbes," and she handed over the kitten which Sherlock accepted with some reluctance. "I'll take the roses upstairs and use the loo. In fact, would you mind if I took a quick shower?"

"No, go ahead," Sherlock said, unhappily.

Molly came to him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she said, trying to sound sympathetic.

"You're welcome," he said, somewhat appeased.

Chuckling to herself, she picked up the vase and climbed up the stairs.

Her plan had worked. When she came downstairs again, feeling much better for some time alone in the loo and dressed in a new pale green nightshirt (and white lace knickers, for later) she found her erstwhile lover lying on the sofa, rapidly texting someone on his mobile, and providing a bed for Hobbes, who was curled in a tiny fluffy ball on his chest..

"You've made friends?" Molly asked.

"More or less."

"Who are you texting? You're not giving Mycroft a scold?"

"Not at all. It's Andrea I'm scolding. I told her she'd better send over a dog to go with the cat. Something in the hound line, with a nose on it."

"Like that bloodhound your friend has?"

"Possibly. We'll see what she comes up with."

"And you're actually asking her to do that for you?" She sat down on the edge of the sofa beside him and petted Hobbes' soft forehead with one finger.

"Andrea's good at legwork. That's why she's been with Mycroft for so long. I, on the other hand, have better things to do." And finally he looked up and put down his mobile, then took up her hand. He fingered the ruby ring thoughtfully. "I'm sorry I was… less than welcoming toward Hobbes."

She nodded, and leaned down to kiss him, smiling as his hand slid beneath the nightshirt and encountered the lace knickers.

"Mmm, lace," he said with approval. "May I see?"

"Don't you want to have a bath first? And we should probably eat something. All three of us should, in fact."

He sighed. "If you insist. Here, take your new friend, then."

While Sherlock loped up the stairs and presently could be heard making use of the shower, Molly opened the big box, which turned out to be full of accessories for Hobbes. She swiftly set up the new litter box, bed, and toys, and fed the kitten from a dish that was painted in an ornate blue and white pattern. After eating, Hobbes used the litter box, then curled up in his bed for another nap.

Molly chuckled.

She started cooking breakfast - bacon, eggs, beans and toast – she felt they needed the protein - but when Sherlock came back into the room, looking appreciably fresher, she told him of Hobbes' exemplary behavior and added, "Trust Anthea to find the perfect cat!"

"Told you she's good at legwork," he said. "But look at this." He gave her his mobile.

Molly read Anthea's last text, _Cousin in Exmoor has one Basset Hound pup left, are you interested?_

Sherlock said eagerly, "Do you fancy a drive out to Exmoor this afternoon?" His face was alight; he looked rather like a small boy considering the prospect of Christmas.

"This is… a Basset Hound? Are you sure?"

"It's one of the oldest of the hunting breeds, French in origin, sturdy and friendly to children –- and _cats_ \- and surpassed only by the Bloodhound in ability to track."

But Molly said, "That's not exactly what I meant. I mean… we seem to be moving at speed toward… um… domestic bliss. _I'm_ all for it, but… are _you_ sure?"

A look of exasperation replaced some of his eagerness and he replied, "Molly, it's been _six years!_ "

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Why _would_ she object to such an unusual six-year courtship? This was _Sherlock_. He was worth waiting for. Worth _anything!_

So she gripped the edge of his dressing gown and pulled him down and kissed his cheek. "Exmoor it is," she told him decisively.

He gathered her close and kissed _her_ , now, on the lips, hard and quick, and then, the boyish enthusiasm returning, said, "But you didn't scroll down – that's the best bit! _The game is on!_ Take a look."

S he did as she was told and burst into laughter again at the picture that came into view. "Oh, Sherlock! He's _perfect!_ " she exclaimed.

And he grinned and said, with great satisfaction, "I know!"

~.~


End file.
